“When she came to, she clasped me in her arms, and in an agony of grief, she sobbed piteously. ‘Mother, mother,’ she said, in broken words, ‘he is gone; they have killed him; what will become of me?’
“I soothed her grief with endearing words until she wept freely. Gradually its violence subsided, but the sadness of her countenance betokened the sorrow that preyed on her heart, never to be contaminated by her love for another one.
“Thus she lived in our midst, 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 me?’