decrepit woman, who was passing by with a baker's cart drawn by a dog;
and, not staying to heed her astonishment, gathered his colors and easel
together.

The tears swam in Bébée's eyes as she saw the box whirled through the
air.

She had done right; she was sure she had done right.

He was a stranger, and she could never have repaid him; but he made her
feel herself wayward and ungrateful, and it was hard to see the beautiful
fairy gift borne away forever by the chuckling, hobbling, greedy old
baker's woman. If he had only taken it himself, she would have been glad
then to have been brave and to have done her duty.

But it was not in his design that she should be glad.

He saw her tears, but he seemed not to see them.

"Good night, Bébée," he said carelessly, as he sauntered aside from her.
"Good night, my dear. To-morrow I will finish my painting; but I will not
offend you by any more gifts."

Bébée lifted her drooped head, and looked him in the eyes eagerly, with a
certain sturdy resolve and timid wistfulness intermingled in her look.

"Sir, see, you speak to me quite wrongly," she said with a quick
accent, that had pride as well as pain in it. "Say it was kind to
bring me what I wished for; yes, it was kind I know; but you never saw
me till last night, and I cannot tell even your name; and it is very