t, always sweet tempered, but with such
sadness depicted in her countenance, and with smiles so sorrowful,
that we had come to look upon her as not of this earth, but rather as
our guardian angel, and this is why we called her no longer Emmeline,
but Evangeline, or God's little angel.

"The sequel of her story is not gay, petiots, and my poor old heart
breaks, whenever I recall the misery of her fate," and while our
grandmother spoke thus, her whole figure was tremulous with emotion.

"Grandmother," we said, "we feel so interested in Evangeline, God's
little angel, do tell us what befell her afterwards."

"Petiots, how can I refuse to comply with your request? I will now
tell you what became of poor Emmeline," and after remaining a while in
thoughtful revery, she resumed her narrative.

"Emmeline, petiots, had been exiled to Maryland with me. She was, as I
have told you, my adopted child. She dwelt with me, and she followed
me in my long pilgrimage from Maryland to Louisiana. I shall not
relate to you now the many dangers that beset us on our journey, and
the many obstacles we had to overcome to reach Louisiana; this would
be anticipating what remains for me to tell you. When we reached the
Teche country, at the Poste des Attakapas, we found there the whole
population congregated to welcome us. As we went ashore, Emmeline
walked by my side, but seemed not to admire the beautiful landscape
that unfolded itself to our gaze. Alas! it was of no moment to her
whether she strolled on the poetical banks of the Teche, or rambled
in the picturesque sites of Maryland. She lived in the past, and her
soul was absorbed in the mournful regret of that past. For her, the
universe had lost the prestige of its beauties, of its freshness, of
its splendors. The radiance of her dreams was dimmed, and she breathed
in an atmosphere of darkness and of desolation.

"She walked beside me with a measured step. All at once, she grasped
my hand, and, as if fascinated by some vision, she stood rooted to
the spot. Her very heart's blood suffused her cheeks, and with the
silvery tones of a voice vibrating with joy: 'Mother! Mother!' she
cried out, 'it is he! It is Louis!' pointing to the tall figure of a
man reclining under a large oak tree.

"That man was Louis Arceneaux.

"With the rapidity of lightning, she flew to his side, and in an
ecstacy of joy: 'Louis, Louis,' said she, 'I am your Emmeline, your
long lost Emmeline! Have you forgotten