A physician was called. He could discover nothing wrong with the child, except this fading 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. 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 père"—for so she called him.
The winter passed, the balmy spring air had come, and Anglice seemed to revive. In her little 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 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 sky. Oh, how beautiful! I seem to lie beneath them all day long. I am very, very happy. I yearned for them until I grew sick,—don't you think so, mon père?"
"Mon Dieu, yes!" exclaimed Antoine, suddenly. "Let us hasten to those pleasant islands where the palms are waving."
Anglice smiled.
"I am going there, mon père!"