Litchfield enquirer., 1876-02-24

c0riaGs star-gazing, as usualp"
 The voice was not unkind only it sound ed rather harsh and jarring at that mo- ment. And, indeed. how should an old man like that ever be able to enter into ike feelings of so young girl, even though she happened to be his own daugh- ter. aal io ifs4 gss nl FanE5.ea s-ss
 I.tIt is too dark to read. 1" said Frona, meekly. Besides. we are getting very near Baveno, now ;a
 And at Baveno they landed. So did I. between Stresa and dinner, and am not sure that it would have made mnch differ ence even if had remembered.
 All that night seemed to be dreaming ] of F'rona. The name was an odd one, but liked it. somehow. There was some- thing quaint and unusual about it, like it's owner. dreamptof her on the mountain tops, with the light of the sky in her eyes, and the breeze ifing her hair, and blowing it all about her sweet, sunny, rosy face. dreampt ssof her in the midst of Q gay world, all decked out in jewels and gold, and beautiful, trailing, mist-like dresses, but with the same innocent, bewildered, earnest gaze in her great, blue eyes. And then I flew with her back to the noun tains; that was the right background for her, after all,' and pictured her trotting in and out of the quaint little Romansch houses, with their balconies and small, round windows and big, wooden doors, and talking to the peasants, and relieving their wants, and wondering over their brave, hardy ways. Ah, no, not wonder ing; she must understand them, think. She had known them, she said. That was the strangest part of all.
 l did not see her at all. the .next day. They told us in the hotel that an invalid gentleman had arrived, the night before, and begged us to make as little noise as possible in the passages. The invalid's name was Marchese San Giorgio. He came from Venice, and was great man in his own country. My perspicacity was not at fault, you see.
 Baveno is famous for it's chestnut woods. They rise all around It, thick and shady, hiding away among the shadows the pret- ty little pGeSe that lie nestling on the hills. There are innumerable paths winding through the woods, funny little paved, stony ways, bounded by low, gray walls. All day long. people go up and down them on their bare, SrOwn feet, men, women and children, with long, deep baskets on their backs, stuffed full of chestnuts, or apples, or grapes They move very slow ly in g. peculiar, swaying, swinging mo- tion of their own, and they rest their bas- kets on the walls as you pass. and stare at you with great, melancholy, dark eyes.
 They have the greatest respect for the Stranger English, "but they marvel at his power of locomotion.
 Did the slgnore walk all the way from England here?" they ask, wondering.
 Nothing short of an earthquake or Q thunder storm seems to rouse them to anything like activity or anxiety.
 There was such a storm one day,-one night, should say, rather. All through the dark hours, 1 had heard it raging the persiennes, now tapping at the win dows as if to be let in. now bursting into torrents of ram, or flashing out sudden tongues of fire, and finally growling away in the distance, like an angry, disappoint- ed beast of prey.
 When morning came. however. all traces of the storm seemed to have disappeared. The sky was as clear as though there had never been a cloud across it; the lake laughed and dimpled like little child ut play. The little town indeed looked rath- CT damp. and there was a perfect harvest of chestnuts under all the trees. One stumbIedupon them at every step. They rolled away in all directions.
 ''The ways and woods smelt sweet" as I went up through them to RomanicO, a little village behind Bayeno. It was de- serted village for once. No chattering or chafferlng from house to. house; 1t all seemed silent as tomb. A donkey stood in the principal street. His nose was stuffed into one door and his tail into an Akh A1.1@ skA 0Vxa { NRV0o Snwhak fit, but he seemed to enjoy. it; and ejec- ton was apparently impossible. l was just meditating a flying leap, when an old woman's head appeared over the dOnkey's tail She uncerlmoniously dragged the obtuse quadruped back W ard into her kitchen.
 ''It is my daughters GsinO," she ex- plained. ''She has gone to gather chest nuts. They have all gone except me. l shall go no moro. nleIgG, DaengG.
 At the end of the village pretty jun ble of sights met by eyes. A pump, Q shrine with the picture of red saint in it; house all balconies and outside stairs, and with strings of golden maize hanging round it; 8 road slanting down to the cemetery; brook trickling awayin vari- ous directions; dazzle of sunshine zig zagging through the wet, interlacing leaves; and. under the trees, group of villagers in their many colored petticoats and broad brimmed hats, raking up tho chestnuts that had fallen during the night. They talked very fast in their quaint, clip ped Italian patois: but they worked very slowly in languid, spiritless sort of way, as if such unwonted sxertions wearied them greatly. One figure amongst them, however, seemed to be working with Q Y nd thither in a quick, eager way-and little childish figure in some dark kind of dress, and quantity of soft, fair hair knottsd up behind. Suddenly the knot of hair turned round ,and saw instead the sweet, flushed, fower-ike face of the old mar chese's F'rona.
 She threw down her rake when she saw me. A chorus of voices rose round her.
 "Oh, do not go yet, beLP signuOLa-not just yet. You teach us how to work. You work yourself like all the angels. You see, signore (this was addressed to me confidentially, by an old fellow, in shirt sleeves and a velveteen waisteoat), the beH siQnatOlo comes from a country where chestnuts are as scarce as gold: so she knows how to value them"
 He was evidently chuckling to himself over the superiority of Lombardy to Ve- netia.
 But the betL signuolG left her rake ly- ing on the grass. s
 q must now go, my friends" she said in her pretty, slow, hesitating Italian. And may never be able to come again. But you will remember, will you not? what have told you about the poor people who live on the mountains, and who Onld be glad very often for handful of those very chestnuts which you leave rotting on the ground" 'ase ..s .at. eE
 And then she walked away by my side, just as if I had been sent to fetch her home.
 1T could not help doing tAat for once" she said half apologetically to me. But I may not be able to go again. He might not like it, you know" q
 Like 1.-the marchese-no; I should think not. No man, however affable. would like to see his daughter working