Bebee sprang out of bed at daybreak.

She was sixteen.
It seemed a very wonderful thing to be as much as that--sixteen--a woman quite.
A cock was crowing under her lattice.

He said how old you are!--how old you are! every time that he sounded his clarion.
She opened the lattice and wished him good day, with a laugh.

It was so pleasant to be woke by him, and to think that no one in all the world could ever call one a child any more.
There was a kid bleating in the shed.

There was a thrush singing in the dusk of the sycamore leaves.