Because Mere Krebs says that when one knows how to spin and sweep and make bread and say one's prayers and milk a goat or a cow, it is all a woman wants to know this side of heaven.

But for me, I cannot help it, when I look at those windows in the cathedral, or at those beautiful twisted little spires that are all over our Hotel de Ville, I want to know who the men were that made them,--what they did and thought,--how they looked and spoke,--how they learned to shape stone into leaves and grasses like that,--how they could imagine all those angel faces on the glass.

When I go alone in the quite early morning or at night when it is still--sometimes in winter I have to stay till it is dark over the lace--I hear their feet come after me, and they whisper to me close, 'Look what beautiful things we have done, Bebee, and you all forget us quite.

We did what never will die, but our names are as dead as the stones.' And then I am so sorry for them and ashamed.

And I want to know more.