head nestling to her bosom, sleepily pressing against it. And the
little one might ask to be sung to sleep. Sung to sleep!

The little bed-chamber, with its high mattressed bed, covered with
the Acadian home-spun quilt, trimmed with netting fringe, its bit of
mirror over the bureau, the bottle of perfumed grease to keep the
locks black and glossy, the prayer-beads and blessed palms hanging
on the wall, the low, black polished spinning-wheel, the loom,--the
_métier d' Adorine_ famed throughout the parish,--the ever goodly
store of cotton and yarn hanks swinging from the ceiling, and the
little square, open window which looked under the mossy oak-branches
to look over the prairie; and once again all blue and white
lilies--they were all there, as Adorine was there; but there was
more--not there.




ANNE MARIE AND JEANNE MARIE


Old Jeanne Marie leaned her hand against the house, and the tears
rolled down her cheeks. She had not wept since she buried her last
child. With her it was one trouble, one weeping, no more; and her
wrinkled, hard, polished skin so far had known only the tears that
come after death. The trouble in her heart now was almost exactly like
the trouble caused by death; although she knew it was not so bad as
death, yet, when she thought of this to console herself, the tears
rolled all the faster. She took the end of the red cotton kerchief
tied over her head, and wiped them away; for the furrows in her face