Litchfield enquirer., 1855-03-08

of nut-picks--with her two-tined fork whicf had lost one of it's members, sat digging ou
 with patience worthy of the gold mines b
 these times, the rich, sweet kernels.
 Suddenly she dropped both fork and nut and in another instant started to her feet, he pan falling from her lap and threatening ma ny grease spot on the well-scoufed floor Fastening to her husband, she shook his shoulders, saying, "Wake up quick, and listen.'' Half frightened, he jumped. and came near setting his stockinged feet upon the live coals; but his watchfuI wife draw. ing him off the hearth, whispered, little wildly. '' Listen, now; don't you hear it!'' Hear whatT' said he, still half asleep "Why, the sound like 2 child crying. There there, now it goes again. Do go to the door. , The old man, now fully aroused, stood witt his hand to his ear, the right ne,-the Jeff had been deaf for mary year. 'sIt's the wind, wife; don't you know it! It is a |, fashion it has when it is cold"
 "It wasn't the wind," said she, solemn ly, with little nervous agitation yet visible in her face. "I know the cry of the wind |: it never makes sound like that. There,'' and she clung to him, quivering like dead leaf, "don't you hear i.!" He certainly did hear something that sounded like the cry of child; and now it did not die away, as it had when his wife had noticed it, with a single .ob, bu, heightened into screams. But how it could sound so near, or whence come, was mystery; for the house stood then far away from any other house; but it was a child's cry, that was certain.
 "lll go and sse," said he, summoning courage to his somewhat faint heart, and he turned to the door. His wife followed close and fas, on his steps. As he withdrew the little slip of wood that fastened the latch, (there wasn't then bolt pr lock in the town) and opened the door, bundle, so it seemed, though of what is was hard to guess, fell into the room with a heavy, li!el-ss sound. The wind blew a white sheet over itere they could again fasten the latch. Half horror, half wonder struck, they dragged the coarse blanket to the hearth. and, unroliing it, dis covered woman and child; the latter struggling to free itself from its many wrap pers, and screaming with all its might; the former molionIess as corpse. with lips as ashy and cheeks as sunken. A half hours charity to the babe, who seemed 10 have seen a twelve-montlI, completely revived it 1; and it lay on its pillow with its li,tie white feet stretched to the fire as happy as love could have made it, cooing as swee,ly as if nest ling on mothers warm bosom. But il took longer to bring back pulse 10 its pale protector; and many times did the good Sa- mafi,ans turn from hef, leaving the shs", drawn over her as we cover | corpse. But a sigh, so faint that i, seemed dying breath, encouraged thsm, and they applied restora- tives until satisfied she would yet live
 But it was many weary day ere che could leave her bed {; and when al last she stole from it, and sat up in the old lady's rocker, and luiIsd her baby with old songs, she seemed to her more like spirit than sick. sad stranger. But gradually, through their tender nursing she recovered strength, and not only tended the child but assisted the old lady in many of her domestic duties. Blu. she said very li,tle-less than they could have wished for in their hearts they longed to knowhe story. They knew she was a sinner--knew it by the meek peni- tent way in which she hung her head when they read the iiible, at mora and night :; knew it by the stained face she raised to them after each prayer. But they loved her all the more, or rather were all the kinder to her. And, though she revived memories that it was agony 10 bear, they folded her to their affections as they would their own lost lamb, had she not gone ere theycould reach her. The winter passed, and still the stran- ger fingered. filling with her lil,ie one a small place in the house, but a large one in each aged heart. One bright, cold spring morn, after assisting in the morning as had become her habit, she went into the bed- room with her babe, and soon re-appeared wrapped in the same coarse garments they had worn on that frosty nigh, of their arri- val.
 "Give her one kias, grandma, and you, grandpa" said she, holding the child first to one, and then to the other wrinkied face; " and now, father; mother-do let me call you so this once! give the unwedded moth- CT one, and we will go, and wherever you go will pray for you, and she shall he taught ,o;'' and sLe rushed wildly to the door. They stopped her, caugh, her child, still wha, you have been so long. our daugh- ter, and do not take from us our darling baby; we should die without her"
 Great drops gathered on the silil pale brow, while tears rushed down her checks, and her lips quivered with fearful agony. She wrung her hands, she beat her heart, she lashed her limbs-she seemed like one who is half mad. i" Give me the child a moment" she exclaimed. and clasping i, wildly to her bosom, she bathed its smiling face with drops wrung from her keenest woe, then kissed it passionately, and held it ou, them. Both stretched their hands, and the llisile one, with an equal love, gave to the one it's right, and the other it's left hand, and upheld between them, crowed and screamed in baby glee. M
 She is the child of sin, ''ssaid the moth. CT, with solemnity that awed for moment the carol of her babe; !" the child of sin, but herself pure and holy as the offspring of . welded tie. Will you keep her so if leave her here, If she goes with me, she will not long be an angel, unless, indeed, God takes her; would he had taken heI mother when she was as young. If she stays with you may she eyer be one. Will you keep her !" and she screamed the words
 into their ears. as though sl.e would hay.
 made their utmost nerves awaken.
 | &.,sl