The last thing to go was a tiny bundle of letters; innocent little
scribblings that Desiree had sent to him during the days of their
espousal. There was the remnant of one back in the drawer from which he
took them. But it was not Desiree's; it was part of an old letter from
his mother to his father. He read it. She was thanking God for the
blessing of her husband's love:--
"But above all," she wrote, "night and day, I thank the good God for
having so arranged our lives that our dear Armand will never know that
his mother, who adores him, belongs to the race that is cursed with the
brand of slavery."