Waterbury evening Democrat., 1889-03-08
CHAPTER XXI.
Full winter came.

ruu "lEUeT came.
 The snow was deep, and the winds drove the people with whips of ice along the dreary country roads anN the steep streets of the city. The bells of the dogs and the mules sounded sadly through the white misty silence of the Flemish plains, and the weary horses slipped and fell on the frozen ruts and on the ragged stones in the little frost shut Flemish towns. Still the Flemish folk were gay enough in many places.
 In the little village above St. Guido, Be- bees neighbors were merry too, in their sim pie way.
 The women worked away wearily at their lace in the dim winter light, and made a wretched living by it, but all the same they got penny playthings for their babies, and a bit of cake for their Sunday hearth They drew together in homely and cordial friend ship, and of an afternoon when dusk fell wove their lace in company in Mere Krebs' millhouse kitchen, with the children and the dogs at their feet on the bricks, so that one big fire might serve for all, and all be lighted with one big rush candle, and all be beguiled by chit-chat and songs, stories of spirits, and whispers of ghosts, and now and then when
 
 or two said ill common for the men toiling in the barges or drifting up the Scheldt.
 In these gatherings Bebee's face was missed, and the blithe soft sound of her voice, like a young thrush singing, was never heard
 Tho people looked ill and saw her sitting over Q great open book-often her hearth had no fire.
 Then the children grew tired of asking her to play, and their elders began to shake their heads; she was so pale and so quiet there must be some evil in it-so they began to think.
 Little by little people dropped away from her. Who knew, the gossips said what shame or sin the child might not have on her sick little soula
 True, Bebee worked hard just the same, and just the same was seen trudging to and fro in the dusk of dawns and afternoons in her two little wooden shoes She was gentle and laborious, and gave the children her goats milk, and the old women the brambles of her garden.
 But they grew afraid of her-afraid of that sad, changeless, far away look in her eyes, and of the mute weariness that was on her and being perplexed were sure, like all igno- rant creatures, that what was secret must be also vile.
 So they hung aloof and let her alone, and by and by scarcely nodded as they passed her, but said to Jeannot:
 ''You were spared bad thing, lad; the child was that grand painters light-'o- love, that is plain to see. The mischief all comes of the stuff old Antoine filled her head with-a stray little by blow of chick weed that ke cockered up like rare carnation. Oh! do not fly in rage, Jeannot; the child is no good, and would have made an honest man rue Take heart of grace and praise the saints, and marry Katto's Lisa"
 But Jeannot would never listen to the slanderers and would never look at Lisa even though the door of the little hut was always closed against him, and whenever he met Bebee on the highway she never seemed to see him more than she saw the snow that her sabots were treading
 One night in the midwinter time old An nemie died.
 Bebee found her in the twilight with her head against the garret window, and her left side all shriveled and useless She had a little sense left, and few feeting breaths to draw