The Tiffin tribune. (Tiffin, Ohio) 1868-1887, 1871-01-05

paper, piteOusly; forgive US, for We
love"
Threey years went by wearily enough
Antoine had entered the church, anC
was already looked upon as a rising
man; but his face was pale and his
heart leaden, for there was no sweet.
ness in life for him.
-Four years had elapsed, when q let.
ter, covered with Outlandish post
marks, was brought to the young
priest-a letter from Anglice. She
was dying-would he forgive her
Emile, the year previous, had fallen
a victim to the fever that ragged on
the island, and their child, little An
:, glice, was likely to follow him. In
pitiful terms she begged Antoine to
take charge of the child until she was
old enough to enter a convent. The
epistle was finished hastily by anOth-
er's hand, informing Antoine OF
Madame Jardin's death it also told
him that Anglice had been placed on
a vessel shortly to leave the island for
some Western port.
The letter delayed by storm and
!, shipwreck, was hardly read and wept
over, when little Angliee arrived.
On behOlding her, Antoine uttered
a cry of joy and surprise-she was so
like the woman he had wOrshipped.
As a mans tears are more pathetic
than a wOman's, so is his love more
intense; not more enduring, not half
so subtle, but intenseT.
The passion that had been crowded
down in his heart broke out and Law
ished its richness on this child, who
was to him not only the Anglice of
years ago, but his friend Emile Jardin
also.
Anglice possessed the wild, strange
beauty of her mother; the bending,
willOWy form, the rich tint of skin,
: the large, tropical eyes, that had al
most made AntOine's sacred robes a
) mOckery to him.
For a month or two Anglice was
wildly unhappy in her new home
She talked continually of the bright
country where she was born, the fruits,
flowers, and blue skies, the tall, fan
like trees, and the streams that went
murmuring through them to the sea.
Antoine could not pacify her.
By and by she ceased to weep, and
went about the cottage with a dreary,
disconsOlate air that cut Antoine to
the heart. a lOng-tailed parOquet,
which she had brought with her in the
ship, walked sOlemnly behind her
from room to rOOr., mutely pining, it
seemed, for those heavy orient airs
that used to Tuffie its brilliant plum
age.
Before the year ended, he noticed
that the ruddy tinge had fled from her
cheek, that her eyes had grown Ian
guid, and her slight figure more will
lOwy than ever.
A physician was consulted. He
could discover nothing ailing with the
child, except this fading and droop-
ing. He failed to account for that.
1t was some vague disease of the mind,
he said, beyond his skill.
| So Anglice faded day by day. She
seldom left her room now. At last
| Antoine could not shut out the fact
that Anglice was passing away. He
had learned to love her so. 'Dear
heart" he said once, "what is't that
ails thee?
Nothing, mon pere," for so she
called him.
The winter passed, the balmy spring
air had come, and Anglice seemed to
revive. In her little bamboo chair OF
the porch she swayed to and fro in a
/ fragrant breeze, with a peculiar un-
dulating motion, like a graceful tree.
! Attimes something seemed to weigh
upon her mind. Antoine noticed it
and waited. At length she spoke:
'Near our house" said little Anglice
-'near our house, on the island, the
palm trees are waving under the blue
skies. o, how beautiful ! 1 seem to
lie beneath them all day long. I am
very, very happy. yearned for them
so much that grew sick. Don't you
think it was so mon pere ?n
'tMOn Dieu, yesW exclaimed An
( tome, suddenly. "Let us hasten to
those pIeasantislands where the palms |
are waving"
Anglice smiled.
az am going there, mon pere."
"Ah, indeed. A week from that ev- |
ening the wax candles burned at her |
feet and forehead, lighting her on her |
journey.
AIIyas over. Now was Antoine's |
heart empty. Death, like another |
Emile, had stolen his new Anglice.-l
He had nothing to do but lay the |
blighted flower away.
Pere Antoine made a shallow grave |
in his garden, and heaped the brown |
mold over his idol.
In the tranquil spring evenings the |
priest was seen sitting by the mold, |
his fingers clasped in the unread pray |
ed prayer-bOOk.
The Summer broke ON that sunny |
land; and in the cool morning twi- |
light, and after nightfall, Antoine lin
gered by the little grave. He could |
never be with it enough.
One morning he observed delicate |
step, with Two curious shaped emerald |
leaves, springing up from the centre |
of the maud. At first he merely no
ticed it casually; but at length the |
plant grew so tall, and was so strange |
" unlike anything he had ever seen |
before, that he examined it with care. |
How straight and graceful and ex-
quisite it was When it swung to and |
fro with the summer wind, in the twi- |
light, 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 sort of a blossom it would unfold |
white, or scarlet, or golden. One l
Sunday, n stranger, with a brOnZed, /
weather-beaten face, like a sailors, |
leaned over the garden rail, and said /
to him:
''What a fine young date-palm you
have, sir"
'Mon Dieup' cried Pere Antoine,
''and is it palm ?n
ayes, indeed, =" returned the mani
~ had no idea the tree would flourish i
in this climate
"MOn Dieu ~ was all the priest could
say.
If Pere Antoine loved the tree be-
fore, he wOrshipped it now. He water
ed it and could have clasped it in his
arms. Here were Emile and Anglice
and the child, all in Onel
Theyears glided away, and the date
palm and the priest grew together
only one became vigorous and the
other feeble PeTe Antoine had long
passed the meridian of life. The tree
was in its youth. 1t no longer stood
in an isolated garden; for pretentiOus
brick and marble houses had clustered
about Antoine's cottage. They look
ed down scOwling on the humble
thatched roof. The city was edging
up, trying to crowd him off his land.
But he clung to it like liehen, and re-
fused to sell.
Spectators piled gold on his door
step, and he laughed at them. Some
times he was hungry, and cold, and
thinly clad; but he laughed at them
none the less. II
"Get thee behind me, Satan ~ said
the old priests smile.
Pere Antoine was very old now,
scarcely obIe TO walk; but he could
sit under the plant caressing leaves
of his palm, loving it like an Arab;
and there he sat till the grimmest
spectators came to him. But even
in death Pere Antoine was faithful TO
his trust.
The owner of that land loses it, if
he harm the date-tree.
And there it stands, in the narrow,
dingy street, a beautiful, dreamy
stranger, an exquisite foreign lady,
whose breath makes the air enamOr-
ed! May the hand wither that touch
es her urgently!
Because it grew from the heart of
little Anglice," said Miss Badeau, ten