passions that woo them.

The day was a busy one, and brought in good profit. Bébée had no less
than fifty sous in her leather pouch when it was over,--a sum of
magnitude in the green lane by Laeken.

A few of her moss-roses were still unsold, that was all, when the Ave
Maria began ringing over the town and the people dispersed to their homes
or their pleasuring.

It was a warm gray evening: the streets were full; there were blossoms in
all the balconies, and gay colors in all the dresses. The old tinker put
his tools together, and whispered to her,--

"Bébée, as it is your feast day, come and stroll in St. Hubert's gallery,
and I will buy you a little gilt heart, or a sugar-apple stick, or a
ribbon, and we can see the puppet show afterwards, eh?"

But the children were waiting at home: she would not spend the evening in
the city; she only thought she would just kneel a moment in the cathedral
and say a little prayer or two for a minute--the saints were so good in
giving her so many friends.

There is something very touching in the Flemish peasant's relation with
his Deity. It is all very vague to him: a jumble of veneration and
familiarity, of sanctity and profanity, without any thought of being
familiar, or any idea of being profane.

There is a homely poetry, an innocent affectionateness in it,
characteristic of the people. He talks to his good angel Michael, and to