he form of her only mania.

She was now a large, gaunt black woman, past thirty-five. Her real name
was Jacqueline, but every one on the plantation called her La Folle,
because in childhood she had been frightened literally "out of her
senses," and had never wholly regained them.

It was when there had been skirmishing and sharpshooting all day in the
woods. Evening was near when P'tit Maitre, black with powder and crimson
with blood, had staggered into the cabin of Jacqueline's mother, his
pursuers close at his heels. The sight had stunned her childish reason.

She dwelt alone in her solitary cabin, for the rest of the quarters had
long since been removed beyond her sight and knowledge. She had more
physical strength than most men, and made her patch of cotton and corn
and tobacco like the best of them. But of the world beyond the bayou she
had long known nothing, save what her morbid fancy conceived.

People at Bellissime had grown used to her and her way, and they thought
nothing of it. Even when "Old Mis'" died, they did not wonder that La
Folle had not crossed the bayou, but had stood upon her side of it,
wailing and lamenting.

P'tit Maitre was now the owner of Bellissime. He was a middle-aged man,
with a family of beautiful daughters about him, and a little son whom La
Folle loved as if he had been her own. She called him Cheri, and so did
every one else because she did.

None of the girls had ever been to her what Cheri was. They had each
and all loved to be with her, and to listen to her wondrous stories of
things that always happened "yonda, beyon' de bayou."

But none of them had stroked her black hand quite as Cheri did, nor
rested their heads against her knee so confidingly, nor fallen asleep in
her arms as he used to do. For Cheri hardly did such things now, since
he had become the proud possessor of a gun, and had had his black curls
cut off.

That summer--the summer Cheri gave La Folle two black curls tied with
a knot of red ribbon--the water ran so low in the bayou that even the
little children at Bellissime were able to cross it on foot, and the
cattle were sent to pasture down by the river. La Folle was sorry when
they were gone, for she loved these dumb companions well, and liked to
feel that they were there, and to hear them browsing by night up to her
own enclosure.

It was Saturday afternoon, when the fields were deserted. The men had
flocked to a neighboring village to do their week's t