day that Desiree was little more than a baby herself; when
Monsieur in riding through the gateway of Valmonde had found her lying
asleep in the shadow of the big stone pillar.

The little one awoke in his arms and began to cry for "Dada." That
was as much as she could do or say. Some people thought she might have
strayed there of her own accord, for she was of the toddling age. The
prevailing belief was that she had been purposely left by a party of
Texans, whose canvas-covered wagon, late in the day, had crossed the
ferry that Coton Mais kept, just below the plantation. In time Madame
Valmonde abandoned every speculation but the one that Desiree had been
sent to her by a beneficent Providence to be the child of her affection,
seeing that she was without child of the flesh. For the girl grew to be
beautiful and gentle, affectionate and sincere,--the idol of Valmonde.

It was no wonder, when she stood one day against the stone pillar in
whose shadow she had lain asleep, eighteen years before, that Armand
Aubigny riding by and seeing her there, had fallen in love with her.
That was the way all the Aubignys fell in love, as if struck by a pistol
shot. The wonder was that he had not loved her before; for he had known
her since his father brought him home from Paris, a boy of eight, after
his mother died there. The passion that awoke in him that day, when he
saw her at the gate, swept along like an avalanche, or like a prairie
fire, or like anything that drives headlong over all obstacles.

Monsieur Valmonde grew practical and wanted things well considered: that
is, the girl's obscure origin. Armand looked into her eyes and did not
care. He was reminded that she was nameless. What did it matter about a
name when he could give her one of the oldest and proudest in Louisiana?
He ordered the corbeille from Paris, and contained himself with what
patience he could until it arrived; then they were married.

Madame Valmonde had not seen Desiree and the baby for four weeks. When
she reached L'Abri she shuddered at the first sight of it, as she always
did. It was a sad looking place, which for many years had not known the
gentle presence of a mistress, old Monsieur Aubigny having married and
buried his wife in France, and she having loved her own land too well
ever to leave it. The roof came down steep and black like a cowl,
reaching out beyond the wide galleries that encircled the yellow
stuccoed house. Big, solemn oaks grew close