Madame de la Tour had moments of uneasiness during her daughter’s childhood; sometimes she used to say to me:  “If I should die what would become of Virginia, dowerless as she is?” She had an aunt in France, a woman of quality, rich, old, and a devotee, to whom she had written at the time of Virginia’s birth.  Not until 1746—­eleven years later—­did a reply reach her.  Her aunt told her that she merited her condition for having married an adventurer; that the untimely death of her husband was a just chastisement of God; that she had done well not to dishonour her country by returning to France; and that after all she was in an excellent country, where everybody made fortunes except the idle.

She added, however, that in spite of all this she had strongly recommended her to the governor of the island, M. de la Bourdonaye.  But, conformably to a custom too prevalent, in feigning to pity she had calumniated her; and, consequently, madame was received by the governor with the greatest coolness.

Returning to the plantation with a bitter heart, madame read the letter tearfully to all the family.  Margaret clasped her to her arms; Virginia, weeping, kissed her hands; Paul stamped with rage; the servants hearing the noise, ran in to comfort her.

Such marks of affection soon dissipated madame’s anguish.

“Oh, my children!” she cried.  “Misfortune only attacks me from afar; happiness is ever around me!”

II—­Nature’s Children

As the years went on, Paul and Virginia grew up together in purity and contentment.  Every succeeding day was to them a day of happiness.  They were strangers to the torments of envy and ambition.  By living in solitude, so far from degenerating into savages, they had become more humane.  If the scandalous history of society did not supply them with topics of discourse, nature filled their hearts with transports of wonder and delight.  They contemplated with rapture the power of that Providence which, by aid of their hands, had diffused amid these barren rocks abundance, beauty, and simple and unceasing pleasures.

When the weather was fine, the families went on Sundays to mass at the church of Pamplemousses.  When mass was over, they ministered to the sick or gave comfort to the distressed.  From these visits Virginia often returned with her eyes bathed in tears, but her heart overflowing with joy, for she had been blessed with an opportunity of doing good.

Paul and Virginia had no clocks nor almanacs nor books of history or philosophy; the periods of their lives were regulated by those of nature.  They knew the hour of the day by the shadow of the trees; the seasons by the times when the trees bore flowers or fruits; and years by the number of the harvests.

“It is dinner-time,” Virginia would say to the family; “the shadows of the banana-trees are at their feet.”  Or, “Night approaches, for the tamarinds are closing their leaves.”