them, blessing the child with each crumb she broke off the bread.

"Why had you not a grandmother of your own, my little one?" she mumbled.
"How good you would have been to her, Bébée!"

"Yes," said Bébée seriously, but her mind could not grasp the idea. It
was easier for her to believe the fanciful lily parentage of Antoine's
stories. "How much work have you done, Annémie? Oh, all that? all that?
But there is enough for a week. You work too early and too late, you dear
Annémie."

"Nay, Bébée, when one has to get one's bread that cannot be. But I am
afraid my eyes are failing. That rose now, is it well done?"

"Beautifully done. Would the Baës take them if they were not? You know he
is one that cuts every centime in four pieces."

"Ah! sharp enough, sharp enough, that is true. But I am always afraid of
my eyes. I do not see the flags out there so well as I used to do."

"Because the sun is so bright, Annémie; that is all. I myself, when I
have been sitting all day in the place in the light, the flowers look
pale to me. And you know it is not age with _me_, Annémie?"

The old woman and the young girl laughed together at that droll idea.

"You have a merry heart, dear little one," said old Annémie. "The saints
keep it to you always."

"May I tidy the room a little?"