stalls.

Her little muslin cap blew back like the wings of a white butterfly. Her
sunny hair caught the last sun-rays. Her feet were fair in the brown
wooden shoes. Under the short woollen skirts the grace of her pretty
limbs moved freely. Her broad silver clasps shone like a shield, and she
was utterly unconscious that any one looked; she was simply and gravely
intent on reaching St. Gudule to say her one prayer and not keep the
children waiting.

Some one leaning idly over a balcony in the street that is named after
Mary of Burgundy saw her going thus. He left the balcony and went down
his stairs and followed her.

The sun-dazzle on the silver had first caught his sight; and then he had
looked downward at the pretty feet.

These are the chances women call Fate.

Bébée entered the cathedral. It was quite empty. Far away at the west end
there was an old custodian asleep on a bench, and a woman kneeling. That
was all.

Bébée made her salutations to the high altar, and stole on into the
chapel of the Saint Sacrament; it was the one that she loved best.

She said her prayer and thanked the saints for all their gifts and
goodness, her clasped hand against her silver shield, her basket on the
pavement by her, abovehead the sunset rays streaming purple and crimson
and golden through the painted windows that are the wonder of the world.