women I had ever met until then. She made one think she had lived in a
world all unlike ours; and withal she was simple, sweet, good, and to love
her seemed the most natural thing on earth. There was nothing
extraordinary in her beauty; the charm was in her intelligence and her
goodness.

Maggie, the Irishwoman, was very taciturn. She never mingled with us, nor
spoke to any one except Suzanne, and to her in monosyllables only when
addressed. You would see her sometimes sitting alone at the bow of the
boat, sewing, knitting, or saying her beads. During this last occupation
her eyes never quitted Alix. One would say it was to her she addressed her
prayers; and one day, when she saw my regard fixed upon Alix, she said to
me:

"It does me good to look at her; she must look like the Virgin Mary."

Her little form, so graceful and delicate, had, however, one slight
defect; but this was hidden under the folds of her robe or of the scarf
that she knew how to arrange with such grace. One shoulder was a trifle
higher than the other.

After having greeted my father, whom she already knew, she turned to us,
hesitated a moment, and then, her two little hands extended, and with a
most charming smile, she advanced, first to me and then to Suzanne, and
embraced us both as if we had been old acquaintances. And from that moment
we were good friends.

It had been decided that the boat should not travel by night,
notwithstanding the assurance of Carlo, who had a map of Attakapas. But in
the Mississippi there was no danger; and as papa was pressed to reach our