Litchfield enquirer., 1867-06-20

 shawl dropping down it's r1ddy folds, the recipient of this kindness repelled her with q gesture of aversion. She got up l feeblv. and put the crimson drapery from l her. After that she hobbled off to bed. Madame's eyes followed her as she left the room. with glance of Dhilosophic con- sidaration, as if meditating the possibility of further experiments in her behalf. After this the old woman kept her bed most of the time but she had 8 notion that she would not be treated like child dainty cloth was therefore spread ill her room at meal-times, and Madame herself prepared an orderly repast to set before her. Tho old lady would sit up at the ta- ble, querulous and provoking, but eat noth- ing: some time afterward l would hear her shufiing feet coming down the stairway to sit in the ashes of the kitchen, where she munched mouthful with the servant, be- taking herself back in terror if she heard Madame's stately step approaching.
 But gradually she gave up that; she grew winter and thinner, and finally kept her bed altogether
 We were sent up in the afternoon to pay our respects to her. shrinking back in childish awe from the spectral figure bol- stered up before us, and making our cour- CeS1eS as Dfle1 as pOSSlDle. One day she seemed to rouse up little as we entered; she nodded her withered head to us in it's wide-frilled cap, and ap- parently wished to speak; but we could not understand the mumbling words, and shrank nervously toward the door. The old woman lifted with her trembling hands gaudy tulip from a vase on the ta- ble, and held it towards Fanchette Fan chette could not withstand the temptation; she faltered slowly up, and took the flower from the shaking, bony hand; then the wrinkled donor smiled, wrinkled, qua vering, ghost of smile, and placed her hand on the child's curling head. Fan 1 chette was not thinking of her old friend much; her childish eyes were wandering over the widespread table whose array of jelly and other good things was far more attractive. \ nice white bowl of gruel stood near the edge; she stretched up on her tiny tiptoes and peered into it. The sunshine streamed in over the snowy table the clean old woman and the gayly- dressed child. We stood at the door and looked, but did not approach. Overcom- ing all her scruples, the little epicure had mounted to chair. The invalid drew the l table slowly toward her. Apparently she had 8 whim that they would have a meal together; those two children, the one hoa- " headed, the other with her downy, sun shiny hair just lighting with golden lus- tre her infantile head, used to be attached to each other once; the old attraction seem- ed to be coming up again as they sat sun ming together.
 With her trembling hands the old wo- man took some sugared fruit from jar, and held it all glistening with crystal sweet ness toward the child
 The sight was too much for those of us who did not want to appear covetous and had outgrown the ingenuousness of child hood.
 We politely withdrew.
 Madame was on the stairs as we came out; apparently she had been waiting. She, good lady, was always so anxious about us
 ''Fanchette?" she said quickly, seeing, as we swept out into the garden. that the little one was missing
 We pointed merrily up the stairs, and I saw Madame gather up her long robe and rush up the stairs swiftly like young girl
 1 cannot tell what had come over me in regard to Madame lately; took strange dreamy interest in everything she did and watched her with an apparently motiveless fascination. Why did she hurry up stairs SO? Would We, would Fanchette be pun ished for staying too long with the old lady? Or for touching her dainties, which we had been forbidden to do? An interesting wo- man, my father always said; and she had become so to me.
 The old lady was dead. Her trouble some, querulous life had fickered out at last. She lay up stairs folded in the linen so long prepared for her. She had died in the night. Madame, who had sat up all that long night, looked worn and white this morning; she had dark lines under her eyes and was strangely restless and uneasy, as people are apt to be who have overtasked their strength.
 Il so wanted the poor soul to die easy, Sophie, said she to me, who, being the oldest pubil, was honored with Madame's confidence occasionally.
 As we stood in the breezy, white draped room and looked at the solemn face from which death had swept out all the stiffness and insignifcance there was a stir of the gauZy window-drapery. Madame started; it was only little Fanchette, who peered in with curious frightened face, and sped away.
 Madame called the child but she would not return; she held a!O0I from Madame all that day, and would not be caressed or car ed for, though it appeared to me she did not look we'll. But children have eccentric instincts, and Fanchette was an odd child. She wandered about in the garden, and eyed us askance all day, like bird that has ahghted among strangers moment and will take wing presently.
 When came down-the stairway I found Fanchette sitting in the sunny porch. Come in darling,' said I to luncheon. We've got something good"
 Fanchette was little epicure; ''some- thing good'' always won her heart. This time she did not stir. ''Me dot some sin dood,' said she. She put her tiny hand in her pocket, and drew out the con- lection old grandmother had given her yesterday. The cunning little one, arres- ted by Madame's entrance in the midst of her dainty revel with the old woman, had pocketed the delicacy.
 ''It will make you sick, Fanchette," " said I, prudeutly.
 s.Did it make granny sick?'' said the child, turning her feverish little face up toward the window where her dead friend lay.
 did not answer. Madame called me, | on5 loft 4bo ohil1 +o bar