Wishing to learn something of Pere Antoine’s history, Sir Charles Lyell made inquiries among the ancient Creole inhabitants of the faubourg.  That the old priest, in his last days, became very much emaciated, that he walked about the streets like a mummy, that he gradually dried up, and finally blew away, was the meagre result of the tourist’s investigations.

This is all that is generally known of Pere Antoine.  Miss Badeau’s story clothes these bare facts.

When Pere Antoine was a very young man, he had a friend whom he loved as he loved his eyes.  Emile Jardin returned his passion, and the two, on account of their friendship, became the marvel of the city where they dwelt.  One was never seen without the other; for they studied, walked, ate, and slept together.

Antoine and Emile were preparing to enter the Church; indeed, they had taken the preliminary steps, when a circumstance occurred which changed the color of their lives.

A foreign lady, from some far-off island in the Pacific, had a few months before moved into their neighborhood.  The lady died suddenly, leaving a girl of sixteen or seventeen entirely friendless and unprovided for.  The young men had been kind to the woman during her illness, and at her death, melting with pity at the forlorn situation of Anglice, the daughter, swore between themselves to love and watch over her as if she were their sister.

Now Anglice had a wild, strange beauty, that made other women seem tame beside her; and in the course of time the young men found themselves regarding their ward not so much like brothers as at first.  They struggled with their destiny manfully, for the holy orders which they were about to assume precluded the idea of love.

But every day taught them to be more fond of her.  So they drifted on.  The weak like to temporize.

One night Emile Jardin and Anglice were not to be found.  They had flown,—­but whither nobody knew, and nobody, save Antoine, cared.

It was a heavy blow to Antoine,—­for he had half made up his mind to run away with her himself.

A strip of paper slipped from a volume on Antoine’s desk, and fluttered to his feet.

“Do not be angry” said the bit of paper, piteously; “forgive us, for we love.”

Three years went by.  Antoine had entered the Church, and was already looked upon as a rising man; but his face was pale and his heart leaden, for there was no sweetness in life for him.

Four years had elapsed, when a letter, covered with outlandish stamps, 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 raged on the island; and their child, little Anglice, 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 by another 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.