When her prayer was done she still kneeled there; her head thrown back to
watch the light, her hands clasped still, and on her upturned face the
look that made the people say, "What does she see?--the angels or the
dead?"

She forgot everything. She forgot the cherries at home, and the children
even. She was looking upward at the stories of the painted panes; she was
listening to the message of the dying sun-rays; she was feeling vaguely,
wistfully, unutterably the tender beauty of the sacred place and the
awful wonder of the world in which she with her sixteen years was all
alone, like a little blue corn-flower among the wheat that goes for grist
and the barley that makes men drunk.

For she was alone, though she had so many friends. Quite alone sometimes;
for God had been cruel to her, and had made her a lark without song.

When the sun faded and the beautiful casements lost all glow and
meaning, Bébée rose with a startled look--had she been dreaming?--was it
night?--would the children be sorry, and go supperless to bed?

"Have you a rosebud left to sell to me?" a man's voice said not far off;
it was low and sweet, as became the Sacrament Chapel.

Bébée looked up; she did not quite know what she saw: only dark eyes
smiling into hers.

By the instinct of habit she sought in her basket and found three
moss-roses. She held them out to him.