afternoon; the sun was just sinking. Out in the still
fields the negroes were picking cotton.

Desiree had not changed the thin white garment nor the slippers which
she wore. Her hair was uncovered and the sun's rays brought a golden
gleam from its brown meshes. She did not take the broad, beaten road
which led to the far-off plantation of Valmonde. She walked across a
deserted field, where the stubble bruised her tender feet, so delicately
shod, and tore her thin gown to shreds.

She disappeared among the reeds and willows that grew thick along the
banks of the deep, sluggish bayou; and she did not come back again.

Some weeks later there was a curious scene enacted at L'Abri. In the
centre of the smoothly swept back yard was a great bonfire. Armand
Aubigny sat in the wide hallway that commanded a view of the spectacle;
and it was he who dealt out to a half dozen negroes the material which
kept this fire ablaze.

A graceful cradle of willow, with all its dainty furbishings, was
laid upon the pyre, which had already been fed with the richness of a
priceless layette. Then there were silk gowns, and velvet and satin ones
added to these; laces, too, and embroideries; bonnets and gloves; for
the corbeille had been of rare quality.

The last thing to go was a tiny bundle of letters; innocent little
scribblings that Desiree had sent to him during the days of their
espousal. There was the remnant of one back in the drawer from which he
took them. But it was not Desiree's; it was part of an old letter from
his mother to his father. He read it. She was thanking God for the
blessing of her husband's love:--

"But above all," she wrote, "night and day, I thank the good God for
having so arranged our lives that our dear Armand will never know that
his mother, who adores him, belongs to the race that is cursed with the
brand of slavery."

A RESPECTABLE WOMAN

Mrs. Baroda was a little provoked to learn that her husband expected his
friend, Gouvernail, up to spend a week or two on the plantation.

They had entertained a good deal during the winter; much of the time had
also been passed in New Orleans in various forms of mild dissipation.
She was looking forward to a period of unbroken rest, now, and
undisturbed tete-a-tete with her husband, when he informed her that
Gouvernail was coming up to stay a week or two.

This was a man she had heard much of but never seen. He had been her
husband's college friend; w