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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
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
When she had made her way through the brush and scrub
cottonwood-trees that lined the opposite bank, she found herself
upon the border of a field where the white, bursting cotton, with
the dew upon it, gleamed for acres and acres like frosted silver in
the early dawn.
La Folle drew a long, deep breath as she gazed across
the country. She walked slowly and uncertainly, like one who