children dropped great tears on the bobbins, because they had come out
without a crust to break their fast.

She had been sad there often for others, but she had never been dull--not
with this unfamiliar, desolate, dreary dulness, that seemed to take all
the mirth out of the busy life around her, and all the color out of the
blue sky above. Why, she had no idea herself. She wondered if she were
going to be ill; she had never been ill in her life, being strong as a
little bird that has never known cage or captivity.

When the day was done, Bébée gave a quick sigh as she looked across the
square. She had so wanted to tell him that she was not ungrateful; and
she had a little moss-rose ready, with a sprig of sweetbrier, and a tiny
spray of maidenhair fern that grew under the willows, which she had kept
covered up with a leaf of sycamore all the day long.

No one would have it now.

The child went out of the place sadly as the carillon rang. There was
only the moss-rose in her basket, and the red and white currants that had
been given her for her dinner.

She went along the twisting, many-colored, quaintly fashioned streets,
till she came to the water-side.

It is very ancient there still, there are all manner of old buildings,
black and brown and gray, peaked roofs, gabled windows, arched doors,
crumbling bridges, twisted galleries leaning to touch the dark surface of
the canal, dusky wharves crowded with barrels, and bales, and cattle, and
timber, and all the various freightage that the good ships come and go