Litchfield enquirer., 1874-03-05
From Scribner's Magazine. A DREAM STORY.

right, and plants his spade firmly into the dry, brown mold.
 The church clock has struck twelve and its quaint, picturesque spire so over looks his garden that he has only to raise his eyes to see how time is going. For though Monsieur Furet bears all the marks of a well-to-do man about him, he IS his owu gardener
 He has the look of rich, matter-of- fact, common-sense citizen, but you need
 only glance at his garden to be sure that
 Monsieur Furet, ec-arOcdt, at present 20rOOrietGire of one of the most charming
 little estates in the neighborhood of Yer.
 on, is man of taste.
 The large center bed of his garden is planted with small pyramidal pear-trees, their graceful branches laden with young fruit, and round about these Is a perfect dazzle of scarlet geraniums, and an edgine of silvery leaves with white blossoms. The broad border which runs under the old gray wall, overlooked by the church spire, IS gay with China roses, and bushes of rosy sweet peas. and blue cockspur, and orange coreopsis, and the wall itself is al- most covered with the purple blossoms oi the Virgins bower. over which they grace fully hang as if they were trying to roll off the wall, and fall on the earth be. low.
 Monsieur Furet has been loosening the earth round the roots of his roses, and he stands with his back to the center plot, and also to a border parallel to the one at which he works; but there are no flowers here except those on the althea bushes, which show out rosily here and there among 8 we'll grouped array of ever- greens.
 On the right Is the pride of Monsieur Furets heart, his rOcher,-an English taste,- cockneyfeld heap of stones piled together as nature would hardly pile them, and surmounted by growth of lady fern, with smaller varieties, and some rock plants nestling in crevices; on his left is his house, plain, dull, stone building, green with age and damp.
 Monsieur Furet's house is pleasantly placed, but it is at the bottom of the steep hill, on which both the chateau and the hill stand; green ditch runs behind the shruberied wall, and in the field, behind the tall sycamores which overshadow the rockery, is deep, stagnant pool.
 Looking at the dismal, moss-grown house, and then going into the field, and seeing the pool half filled with branches fallen from the trees above, over which water-weeds are clinging in Q shroud- like fashion, you begin to dream of secret mur- der committed in the silent pool, and of pale ghosts who walk. the lonely house; but your ghostly thoughts fly at the plump, round figure that has just advanc- ed to the back door, and stands there fill ing up the entrance, with broad, stumpy brown hand planted on each hip. Only her red face, her hands, and her snowy cap, with it's strings pinned across each other over her forehead, relieve her from the dark passage behind, for both gown and apron are black, or rather of that greerfsh hue which indicates thrift, and, also, cleanliness in the wearer Yes, Mar guerite's gown has been washed many a time, and looks done the better for it as to color.
 Her fat, double chin waggles as she Monsieur Furet.
 ''But why then has he to leave off work half an hour too soon, cher Maitre Joseph there is something thou art keeping from Margot."
 Monsieur Furet turns and comes to- wards her. He is tall, erect man, who would be good-looking, spite of his wrinkles, if his face were not so stern. It might be carved in wood or stone, 1t is so hard and expressionless. Except for the on his forehead, and round his mouth there is an absence of flesh; the smooth yellow skin seems strained over the skull bones. Also, you must be a very keen observer, indeed, if you can note any intelligible change in those dull, gray eyes which gaze at you so steadily. They are in color like steel over which one has breathed. Perhaps they were bright once when Monsieur Furet was young and poor.
 Margot never questions her master, but to-day she feels inquisitive. There has been restlessness about Monsieur Furet, and Margot wonders,-more with a half contempt at her own credulity than In combat with any real belief whether Jac- ques Monton was in earnest when he leased her on Sunday after vespers about the prospect of her masters marriage
 "But Jacques is an ill-natured old crip- ple," she said, ''folks who have lost some thing themselves are willing enough to put the fear of losing something into their neighbors' noddles. My master is the man for miles round-it is not likely he will turn fool at sixty, just for the blue eyes of child like Eugenie Rous- sel. Bah bah bah Jacques is one ape. and am another to listen to his non sense."
 Marguerite Monsieur Furet has that voice which seems peculiar to Frenchmen: a voice with certain greasy readiness in it as if the speaker kept his words in his mouth, and tumbled them out one over another in such eagerness.
 
 at once. have to make 8 visit of ceremony"
 s'A la bonne he,re." Her curiosity is at fever heat, but she keeps down any show of it. Monsieur will then want his holiday suit, and his new boots."
 Monsieur Furet's dull eyes close at each corner as if he is enjoying a joke, and means to keep it to himself.
 "My friend" he says quietly, 'I asked but for radishes and bread, and I want those at once."
 He pushes by the menagsre into the long, dark passage, and Marguerite can only vent her feelings by shrugging her shoulders, and by n expressive grimace lavished freely on the scarlet geranium bed.
 The mill of Veron has reputation. It is no mere ordinary windmill, with the sails signing the four winds with the cross, as they put it's sails in motion; neither is it water-mill. with treacherous smooth green pool, and tiny cascades foaming of the grotesque old wheels.
 The mill of Veron looks like a substan- tlal brick house, standing in green or chards near the top of the lofty cote. There is nothing outside itself to give to- kens of the occupation carried on within except TOW of brown, bulging sacks near 8 low green door, and the huge pile of empty sacks under the open shed some little way down the slope. There is 8 cider-press in this shed, and sunny-faced country lad in blouse is sweeping the trough of thls with broom. There are brown and white cows grazing peacefully under the appletrees, scenting the air with fragrant breath, and on the narrow upward path to the mill cocks and hens strut as if they were on parade, and wish ed to be looked at. The path itself is on- Y marked out in the grass by cart ruts. The ascent is rather steep, and Monsieur Furet stops to breathe when he reaches