She never heard any story in the robin's song, or saw any promise in the sunset clouds, or fancied that angels came about her in the night—never now.
The fields were gray and sad; the birds were little brown things; the stars were cold and far off; the people she had used to care for were like mere shadows that went by her meaningless and without interest, and all she thought of was the one step that never came: all she wanted was the one touch she never felt.
"You have done wrong, Bébée, and you will not own it," said the few neighbors who ever spoke to her.
Bébée looked at them with wistful, uncomprehending eyes.
"I have done no wrong," she said gently, but no one believed her.
A girl did not shut herself up and wane pale and thin for nothing, so they reasoned. She might have sinned as she had liked if she had been sensible after it, and married Jeannot.
But to fret mutely, and shut her lips, and seem as though she had done nothing,—that was guilt indeed.
For her village, in its small way, thought as the big world thinks.
CHAPTER XXIV.
Full winter came.