La Petite had determined upon trying to fit herself to the strange,

narrow existence which she knew awaited her at Cote Joyeuse. It went

well enough at first. Sometimes she followed Ma'ame Pelagie into the

fields to note how the cotton was opening, ripe and white; or to count

the ears of corn upon the hardy stalks. But oftener she was with her

aunt Pauline, assisting in household offices, chattering of her brief

past, or walking with the older woman arm-in-arm under the trailing moss

of the giant oaks.

Mam'selle Pauline's steps grew very buoyant that summer, and her eyes

were sometimes as bright as a bird's, unless La Petite were away

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from her side, when they would lose all other light but one of uneasy

expectancy. The girl seemed to love her well in return, and called her

endearingly Tan'tante. But as the time went by, La Petite became very

quiet,--not listless, but thoughtful, and slow in her movements. Then

her cheeks began to pale, till they were tinged like the creamy plumes

of the white crepe myrtle that grew in the ruin.

One day when she sat within its shadow, between her aunts, holding a

hand of each, she said: "Tante Pelagie, I must tell you something,

you and Tan'tante." She spoke low, but clearly and firmly. "I love you

both,--please remember that I love you both. But I must go away from

you. I can't live any longer here at Cote Joyeuse."

A spasm passed through Mam'selle Pauline's delicate frame. La Petite

could feel the twitch of it in the wiry fingers that were intertwined

with her own. Ma'ame Pelagie remained unchanged and motionless. No human

eye could penetrate so deep as to see the satisfaction which her soul

felt. She said: "What do you mean, Petite? Your father has sent you to

us, and I am sure it is his wish that you remain."

"My father loves me, tante Pelagie, and such will not be his wish when

he knows. Oh!" she continued with a restless, movement, "it is as though

a weight were pressing me backward here. I must live another life; the

life I lived before. I want to know things that are happening from day

to day over the world, and hear them talked about. I want my music,

my books, my companions. If I had known no other life but this one of

privation, I suppose it would be different. If I had to live this life,

I should make the best of it. But I do not have to; and you know, tante

Pelagie, you do not need to. It seems to me," she added in a whisper,

"that it is a sin against myself. Ah, Tan'tante!--what is the matter

with Tan'tante?"




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