To the bequest of her excellent ancestor Eugenie showed much devotion, and her uncle had often said that the tree should some day belong to her.  The greater was her disappointment then, when, during her absence in the preceding spring, the leaves of the precious tree began to turn yellow and many branches died.  The gardener gave it up for lost, since he could find no particular cause for its fading, and did not succeed in reviving it.  But the Count, advised by a skilful friend, had it placed in a room by itself and treated according to one of the strange and mysterious prescriptions which exist among the country folk, and his hope of surprising his beloved niece with her old friend in all its new strength and fruitfulness was realized beyond expectation.  Repressing his impatience, and anxious, moreover, lest those oranges which had ripened first should fall from the tree, he had postponed the surprise for several weeks, until the day of the betrothal; and there is no need of further excuse for the good man’s emotion, when, at the last moment, he found that a stranger had robbed him of his pleasure.

But the Lieutenant had long before dinner found opportunity to arrange his poetical contribution to the festive presentation, and had altered the close of his verses, which might otherwise have been almost too serious.  Now he rose and drew forth his manuscript, and, turning to Eugenie, began to read.

The oft-sung tree of the Hesperides—­so ran the story—­sprang up, ages ago, in the garden of Juno on a western island, as a wedding gift from Mother Earth, and was watched over by three nymphs, gifted with song.  A shoot from this tree had often wished for a similar fate, for the custom of bestowing one of his race on a royal bride had descended from gods to mortals.  After long and vain waiting, the maiden to whom he might turn his fond glances seemed at last to be found.  She was kind to him and lingered by him often.  But the proud laurel (devoted to the Muses), his neighbor beside the spring, roused his jealousy by threatening to steal from the talented beauty all thought of love for man.  In vain the myrtle comforted him and taught him patience by her own example; finally the absence of his beloved increased his malady till it became well-nigh fatal.

But summer brought back the absent one, and, happily, with a changed heart.  Town, palace, and garden received her with the greatest joy.  Roses and lilies, more radiant than ever, looked up with modest rapture; shrubs and trees nodded greetings to her; but for one, the noblest, she came alas! too late.  His leaves were withered, and only the lifeless stem and the dry tips of his branches were left.  He would never know his kind friend again.  And how she wept and mourned over him!

But Apollo heard her voice from afar, and, coming nearer, looked with compassion upon her grief.  He touched the tree with his all-healing hands.  Immediately the sap began to stir and rise in the trunk; young leaves unfolded; white, nectar-laden flowers opened here and there.  Yes—­for what cannot the immortals do-the beautiful, round fruits appeared, three times three, the number of the nine sisters; they grew and grew, their young green changing before his eyes to the color of gold.  Phoebus—­so ended the poem—­