"To be sure, dear, and thank you too. I have not much time, you see; and
somehow my back aches badly when I stoop."

"And it is so damp here for you, over all that water!" said Bébée as she
swept and dusted and set to rights the tiny place, and put in a little
broken pot a few sprays of honeysuckle and rosemary that she had brought
with her. "It is so damp here. You should have come and lived in my hut
with me, Annémie, and sat out under the vine all day, and looked after
the chickens for me when I was in the town. They are such mischievous
little souls; as soon as my back is turned one or other is sure to push
through the roof, and get out among the flower-beds. Will you never
change your mind, and live with me, Annémie? I am sure you would be
happy, and the starling says your name quite plain, and he is such a
funny bird to talk to; you never would tire of him. Will you never come?
It is so bright there, and green and sweet smelling; and to think you
never even have seen it!--and the swans and all,--it is a shame."

"No, dear," said old Annémie, eating her last bunch of currants.
"You have said so so often, and you are good and mean it, that I
know. But I could not leave the water. It would kill me. Out of this
window you know I saw my Jeannot's brig go away--away--away--till the
masts were lost in the mists. Going with iron to Norway; the 'Fleur
d'Epine' of this town, a good ship, and a sure, and her mate; and as
proud as might be, and with a little blest Mary in lead round his throat.
She was to be back in port in eight months, bringing timber. Eight
months--that brought Easter time. But she never came. Never, never,
never, you know. I sat here watching them come and go, and my child
sickened and died, and the summer passed, and the autumn, and all the
while I looked--looked--looked; for the brigs are all much alike; and