, but they
left the baby girl in the hands of a good old aunt, until they could
corral fortune and make things secure, for this world at least.

They never came back, for they died and were buried.

Josephine never had any recollection of her parents. But the aunt was
gentle and kindly, and life was simple and cheap. There was plenty to eat,
and no clothing to speak of was required, for the Equator was only a
stone's throw away; in fact, it was in sight of the house, as Josephine
herself has said.

There was a Catholic church near, but no school. Yet Josephine learned to
read and write. She sang with the negroes and danced and swam and played
leap-frog. When she was nine years old, her aunt told her she must not
play leap-frog any more, but she should learn to embroider and to play the
harp and read poetry. Then she would grow up and be a fine lady.

And Josephine thought it a bit hard, but said she would try.

She was tall and slender, but not very handsome. Her complexion was rather
yellow, her hands bony. But the years brought grace, and even if her
features were not pretty she had one thing that was better, a gentle
voice. So far as I know, no one ever gave her lessons in voice culture
either. Perhaps the voice is the true index of the soul. Josephine's voice
was low, sweet, and so finely modulated that when she spoke others would
pause to listen--not to the words, just to the voice.

Occasionally, visitors came to the island and were received at the old
rambling mansion where Josephine's aunt lived. From them the girl learned
about the great, outside world with its politics and society and strife
and rivalry; and when the visitor went away Josephine had gotten from him
all he knew. So the young woman became wise without school and learned
without books. A year after the memorable year of Seventeen Hundred
Seventy-six, there came to the island, Vicomte Alexander Beauharnais. He
had come direct from America, where he had fought on the side of the
Colonies against the British. He was full of Republican principles.
Paradoxically, he was also rich and idle and somewhat of an adventurer.

He called at the old aunt's, Madame Renaudin's, and called often. He fell
violently in love with Josephine. I say violently, for that was the kind
of man he was. He was thirty, she was fifteen. His voice was rough and
guttural, so I do not think he had much inward grace. Josephine's fine
instincts rebelled at thought of accepting