more daring gathered about her, and followed at her heels,
only to fall back with new terror when she turned her distorted face
upon them. Her eyes were bloodshot and the saliva had gathered in a
white foam on her black lips.

Some one had run ahead of her to where P'tit Maitre sat with his family
and guests upon the gallery.

"P'tit Maitre! La Folle done cross de bayou! Look her! Look her yonda
totin' Cheri!" This startling intimation was the first which they had of
the woman's approach.

She was now near at hand. She walked with long strides. Her eyes were
fixed desperately before her, and she breathed heavily, as a tired ox.

At the foot of the stairway, which she could not have mounted, she laid
the boy in his father's arms. Then the world that had looked red to
La Folle suddenly turned black,--like that day she had seen powder and
blood.

She reeled for an instant. Before a sustaining arm could reach her, she
fell heavily to the ground.

When La Folle regained consciousness, she was at home again, in her own
cabin and upon her own bed. The moon rays, streaming in through the open
door and windows, gave what light was needed to the old black mammy who
stood at the table concocting a tisane of fragrant herbs. It was very
late.

Others who had come, and found that the stupor clung to her, had gone
again. P'tit Maitre had been there, and with him Doctor Bonfils, who
said that La Folle might die.

But death had passed her by. The voice was very clear and steady with
which she spoke to Tante Lizette, brewing her tisane there in a corner.

"Ef you will give me one good drink tisane, Tante Lizette, I b'lieve I'm
goin' sleep, me."

And she did sleep; so soundly, so healthfully, that old Lizette without
compunction stole softly away, to creep back through the moonlit fields
to her own cabin in the new quarters.

The first touch of the cool gray morning awoke La Folle. She arose,
calmly, as if no tempest had shaken and threatened her existence but
yesterday.

She donned her new blue cottonade and white apron, for she remembered
that this was Sunday. When she had made for herself a cup of strong
black coffee, and drunk it with relish, she quitted the cabin and walked
across the old familiar field to the bayou's edge again.

She did not stop there as she had always done before, but crossed with a
long, steady stride as if she had done this all her life.

When she had made her way through the brush and scrub c