because she was half a woman, because she was half a poet, because
she was wholly a poet.

"Oh, dear swans, how good it is to be sixteen!--how good it is to live at
all!--do you not tell the willows so?" said Bébée to the gleam of silver
under the dark leaves by the water's side, which showed her where her
friends were sleeping, with their snowy wings closed over their stately
heads, and the veiled gold and ruby of their eyes.

The swans did not awake to answer.

Only the nightingale answered from the willows, with Desdemona's song.

But Bébée had never heard of Desdemona, and the willows had no sigh for
her.

"Good night!" she said, softly, to all the green dewy sleeping world, and
then she lay down and slept herself.--The nightingale sang on, and the
willows trembled.




CHAPTER V.


"If I could save a centime a day, I could buy a pair of stockings this
time next year," thought Bébée, locking her shoes with her other
treasures in her drawer the next morning, and taking her broom and pail
to wash down her little palace.