Public ledger. [volume] (Memphis, Tenn.) 1865-1893, 1873-11-13

II
tome TO take charge OF the child unit
she was old enough 10 enter the convent
OF the Sacre-Ceur. The epistle was
finished hastily by another hand, in
forming Antoine Of Mrs. Jardin death
it also told him that Anglice had been
placed on board vessel shortly to leave
the island for some western port.
The letter, delayed by storm and ship
wreck, was hardly read and wept over
when little Anglice arrived
On beholding her, Antoine uttered q
cry OF JOY and surprise, she was 80 like
the woman he had worshipped.
The passion that had been crowded
down in his heart, broke out and Law.
ished its rudeness 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 will
lowy form, the rich tint of skin, the
large tropical eyes, that had almost
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 and
flowers and blue skies, the tall, fan-like
trees and the streams that went muir
muring through them to the sea. An
tome could not pacify her. By and by
she ceased to weep, and went about the
cottage in a weary, disconsolate way,
that cut Antoine to the heart A long
tailed paroquet, which she brought with
her in the ship, walked solemnly behind
her from room to room, mutely pining,
it seems, for those heavy orient airs
that used to ruffle its brilliant plumage.
Before the year ended he noted that
the ruddy tinge had faded from her
cheek, that her eye had grown languid,
and her slight form more willowy than
ever.
A physician was consulted; he could
discover nothing wrong in the child
except this fading and dropping. He
failed to account for that. 1t was some
vague disease of the mind, he said, be-
yond his skill.
So Anglce 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
it ails thee2"
Nothing, mon pere," for so she
called him.
The winter passed. The balmy spring
had come with its magnolia blooms, and
Anglice seemed to revive. In her small
bamboo chair, on the porch, she swayed
to and fro in the fragrant breeze, with
peculiar undulating motion, like grace
ful tree.
At times something seemed to weigh
upon her mind. Antoine observed 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 sky. Oh,
how beautiful | seem to lie beneath
them all day long. / am very, very
happy. Iyearned for them 50 much that
l grew sick-don't you think it was so,
mon perez"
"Helas, yes " exclaimed Antoine sud-
denly. "Let US hasten to those pleasant
islands, where palms are waving"
Anglice smiled.
II am going there, mon pere. A
week from that evening the wax candles
burned at her feet and forehead, lighting
her on in her journey. All was over.
Now was Antoines 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 madea shallow grave in
his garden, and heaped the fresh brown
mould over his idol.
In the tranquil spring evenings the
priest was seen sitting by the mound, his
fingers closed on the unread breviary.
The summer broke on that sunny land;
and in the cool morning twilight, and
after nightfall, Antoine fingered by the
grave. He could never be with it
enough.
One morning he observed delicate
stem, with two curiously shaped emerald
leaves, springing up from the centre of
the mound. At first he only noticed it
casually; but at length the plant grew
so tall, and was so strangely uulike any
thing he had ever seen before, that he
examined it with care.
How straight and graceful and ex.
quisite it was When it sYnpg to and
fro with the sup mer wind, in the twilight,
it seemed to Antoine as it little Anglice
were standing there in the garden.
The days stole by, and Antoine tend
ed it, wondering what manner Of bios
som it would unfold, white, or scarlet, or
golden. One Sunday, a stranger with
bronzed, weather-beaten face, like a
sailors leaned over the garden rail, and |
said TO 'bim. What fine young date
na;m YOU have got SIR =
Mon Die6i.." cried Pere Antoine,
e and is it palm2 " |
"Yec, indeed, returned the man. /
didn't reckon the tree would flourish in
this latitude
"Ah, mon Dieu" was all the priest
could say aloud but he murmured to
himself, Cest lie bon Dieu qui ma
ionne celia"
If Pere Antoine loved the tree before,
he worshipped it now. He watered it
and nurtured it, and could have clssped
il in his arms. Here were Emile, An
ylice and the child, all in one
The years glided by, and the date
palm and the priest grew together; only
one became vigorous and the other fee
Bile. Pere Antoine had long passed the
OF life. The tree was in its
youth it no longer stood in an isolated
garden, for pretenteous brick and stucoo
houses had clustered about Antoine's
They looked down scowling on
he humble matched roof The city
vas edging up, trying to crowd him of
lis land, but he clung to it like lichen,
and refused TO sell.
Spectators piled gold on his door
Iteps, and he laughed at them. Some
lines he was hungry, and cold. and