ing and drooping. He failed to account for that.
It was some vague disease of the mind, he said, beyond his skill.

So Anglice faded day after day. She seldom left the room now. At last
Antoine could not shut out the fact that the child was passing away. He
had learned to love her so!

"Dear heart," he said once, "What is't ails thee?"

"Nothing, mon pere," for so she called him.

The winter passed, the balmy spring had come with its magnolia blooms
and orange blossoms, and Anglice seemed to revive. In her small bamboo
chair, on the porch, she swayed to and fro in the fragrant breeze, with
a peculiar undulating motion, like a graceful tree.

At times something seemed to weigh upon her mind. Antoine observed it,
and waited. Finally she spoke.

"Near our house," said little Anglice--"near our house, on the island,
the palm-trees are waving under the blue sky. Oh, how beautiful! I seem
to lie beneath them all day long. I am very, very happy. I yearned for
them so much that I grew ill--don't you think it was so, mon pere?

"Helas, yes!" exclaimed Antoine, suddenly. "Let us hasten to those
pleasant islands where the palms are waving."

Anglice smiled. "I am going there, mon pere."

A week from that evening the wax candles burned at her feet and
forehead, lighting her on the journey.

All was over. Now was Antoine's heart empty. Death, like another Emile,
had stolen his new Anglice. He had nothing to do but to lay the blighted
flower away.

Pere Antoine made a shallow grave in his garden, and heaped the fresh
brown mold over his idol.

In the tranquil spring evenings, the priest was seen sitting by the
mound, his finger closed in the unread breviary.

The summer broke on that sunny land; and in the cool morning twilight,
and after nightfall, Antoine lingered by the grave. He could never be
with it enough.

One morning he observed a delicate stem, with two curiously shaped
emerald leaves, springing up from the centre of the mound. At first he
merely noticed it casually; but presently the plant grew so tall, and
was so strangely unlike anything he had ever seen before, that he
examined it with care.

How straight and graceful and exquisite it was! When it swung to and
fro with the summer wind, in the twilight, it seemed to Antoine as if
little Anglice were standing there in the garden.

The days stole by, and Antoine tended the fragile shoot, wondering what
manner of blossom it would unfold, white, or scarle