When asked about her age and that of Paul, “My brother,” she would answer, “is the same age with the great coconut-tree of the fountain, and I the same age with the small one.  The mango-trees have yielded their fruit twelve times, and the orange-trees have opened their blossoms twenty-four times since I came into the world.”

Thus did these two children of nature advance in life; hitherto no care had wrinkled their foreheads, no intemperance had corrupted their blood, no unhappy passion had depraved their hearts; love, innocence, piety were daily unfolding the beauties of their souls in graces ineffable, in their features, their attitude, and their movements.

Nevertheless, in time Virginia felt herself disturbed by a strange malady.  Serenity no longer sat upon her forehead, nor smiles upon her lips.  She withdrew herself from her innocent amusements, from her sweet occupations, and from the society of her family.

Sometimes, at the sight of Paul, she ran up to him playfully, when all of a sudden an unaccountable embarrassment seized her; a lively red coloured her cheeks, and her eyes no longer dared to fix themselves on his.

Meanwhile Margaret said to Madame de la Tour, “Why should we not marry our children?  Their passion for each other is extreme, although my son is not sensible of it.”

“Not yet,” answered madame; “they are too young, and too poor.  But if we send Paul to India for a short time, commerce will supply him with the means of buying some slaves.  On his return we will marry him to Virginia, for I am certain that no one can make my daughter so happy as your son Paul.  Let us consult our neighbour about it.”

So they discussed the matter with me, and I approved of their plan.  But when I opened the business to Paul, I was astonished when he replied, “Why would you have me quit my family for a visionary project of fortune?  If we wish to engage in trade, cannot we do so by carrying our superfluities to the city, without any necessity for my rambling to India?  What if any accident should befall my family during my absence, more especially Virginia, who even now is suffering?  Ah, no!  I could never make up my mind to quit them.”

I durst not hint to him that Virginia was lovesick, and that the voyage had been projected that the two might be separated until they had grown a little older.

III.—­Virginia’s Departure

Just at this time a letter came to Madame de la Tour from her aunt, who had just recovered from a dangerous illness, and whose obdurate heart had been softened by the fear of death.  She requested her niece to return to France; or, if the state of her health prevented her from undertaking the voyage, to send Virginia thither, on whom she intended to bestow a good education, a place at court, and a bequest of all her possessions.  The return of her favour, she added, depended entirely on compliance with these injunctions.