dim eyes; the divine faith of love and the mule-like stupidity of
ignorance made him cling to this one thought without power of judgment in
it.

"They say she would be sixty," he said, with a little dreary smile. "But
that is absurd, you know. Why, she had cheeks like yours, and she would
run--no lapwing could fly faster over corn. These are her things, you
see; yes--all of them. That is the sprig of sweetbrier she wore in her
belt the day before the wagon knocked her down and killed her. I have
never touched the things. But look here, Bébée, you are a good child and
true, and like her just a little. I mean to give you her silver clasps.
They were her great-great-great-grandmother's before her. God knows how
old they are not. And a girl should have some little wealth of that sort;
and for Antoine's sake--"

The old man stayed behind, closing the press door upon the
lavender-scented clothes, and sitting down in the dull shadow of the hut
to think of his daughter, dead forty summers and more.

Bébée went out with the brave broad silver clasps about her waist, and
the tears wet on her cheeks for a grief not her own.

To be killed just when one was young, and was loved liked that, and
all the world was in its May-day flower! The silver felt cold to her
touch--as cold as though it were the dead girl's hands that held her.

The garlands that the children strung of daisies and hung about her had
never chilled her so.

But little Jeanne, the youngest of the charcoal-burner's little tribe,