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 père?”
“Hélas, yes!” exclaimed Antoine, suddenly. “Let us hasten to those pleasant islands where the palms are waving.”
Anglice smiled.
“I am going there, mon père.”
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.
Père Antoine made a 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 finger closed in the unread breviary.