Far away at the west end there was an old custodian asleep on a bench, and a woman kneeling.

That was all.
Bebee made her salutations to the high altar, and stole on into the chapel of the Saint Sacrament; it was the one that she loved best.
She said her prayer and thanked the saints for all their gifts and goodness, her clasped hand against her silver shield, her basket on the pavement by her, abovehead the sunset rays streaming purple and crimson and golden through the painted windows that are the wonder of the world.
When her prayer was done she still kneeled there; her head thrown back to watch the light, her hands clasped still, and on her upturned face the look that made the people say, "What does she see ?--the angels or the dead ?" She forgot everything.

She forgot the cherries at home, and the children even.

She was looking upward at the stories of the painted panes; she was listening to the message of the dying sun-rays; she was feeling vaguely, wistfully, unutterably the tender beauty of the sacred place and the awful wonder of the world in which she with her sixteen years was all alone, like a little blue corn-flower among the wheat that goes for grist and the barley that makes men drunk.
For she was alone, though she had so many friends.

Quite alone sometimes; for God had been cruel to her, and had made her a lark without song.
When the sun faded and the beautiful casements lost all glow and meaning, Bebee rose with a startled look--had she been dreaming ?--was it night ?--would the children be sorry, and go supperless to bed?
"Have you a rosebud left to sell to me ?" a man's voice said not far off; it was low and sweet, as became the Sacrament Chapel.
Bebee looked up; she did not quite know what she saw: only dark eyes smiling into hers.
By the instinct of habit she sought in her basket and found three moss-roses.