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Little Panchot had been colero at the recent shearing. "Is he dead?" we queried hoarsely. "He was dead," replied the cook, with seriousness: "he is not dead now." With this light and delicate touch the cook swept the gamut of our emotions from awe at little Panchot's sudden taking off to pleasure at his speedy resurrection.
These last were constantly assisting conversation at the cottages with such incidents as the following: The cook a tall, gaunt negro of a mediaevally "intense" nature came in with an excited manner, followed by Madame Alguin, very much troubled, wringing her hands, and dissolved in tears. "Panchot's little boy," said the cook, "is killed." We were naturally aghast.
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