About an hour after noon a voice addressed her,--

"Have you more moss-roses for me?"

Bébée looked up with a smile, and found some. It was her companion of the
cathedral. She had thought much of the red shoes and the silver clasps,
but she had thought nothing at all of him.

"You are not too proud to be paid to-day?" he said, giving her a silver
franc; he would not alarm her with any more gold; she thanked him, and
slipped it in her little leathern pouch, and went on sorting some
clove-pinks.

"You do not seem to remember me?" he said, with a little sadness.

"Oh, I remember you," said Bébée, lifting her frank eyes. "But you know I
speak to so many people, and they are all nothing to me."

"Who is anything to you?" It was softly and insidiously spoken, but it
awoke no echo.

"Varnhart's children," she answered him, instantly. "And old Annémie by
the wharfside--and Tambour--and Antoine's grave--and the starling--and,
of course, above all, the flowers."

"And the fairies, I suppose?--though they do nothing for you."

She looked at him eagerly,--

"They have done something to-day. I have found a box, and some