Edmund Spenser.
In the best chamber of the house of Pierre Toussaint in Franklin Street, looking out on blossoming grape-vines and a nectarine-tree in the area, sat Mrs. Charlton in an arm-chair, and propped by pillows. Her wasted features showed that disease had made rapid progress since the glance we had of her in the mirror.
A knock at the door was followed by the entrance of Toussaint.
“Well, Toussaint, what’s the news to-day?” asked the invalid.
Toussaint replied in French: “I do not find much of new in the morning papers, madame. Is madame ready for her breakfast?”
“Yes, any time now. I see my little Lulu is washing himself.”
Lulu was the canary-bird. Toussaint quitted the room and returned in a few minutes, bringing in a tray, spread with the whitest of napkins, and holding a silver urn of boiling water, a pitcher of cream, and two little shining pots, one filled with coffee, the other with tea. The viands were a small roll, with butter, an omelette, and a piece of fresh-broiled salmon.
“Sit down and talk with me, Toussaint, while I eat,” said the invalid. “Have you seen my husband lately?”
“Not, madame, since he called to recover the box.”
“Has he sent to make inquiry in regard to my health?”