"One would think he had no heart," said Mère Giraud; "but men are often so,—ready to work, but cold and dumb. Ah! it is only a mother who bears the deepest grief."
She fought passionately enough for a hope at first, but it was forced from her grasp in the end. Death had entered the house and spoken to her in the changed voice which had summoned her from her sleep.
"Madame," said the doctor one evening as they stood over the bed while the sun went down, "I have done all that is possible. She will not see the sun set again. She may not see it rise."
Mère Giraud fell upon her knees beside the bed, crossing herself and weeping.
"She will die," she said, "a blessed martyr. She will die the death of a saint."
That very night—only a few hours later—there came to them a friend,—one they had not for one moment even hoped to see,—a gentle, grave old man, in a thin, well-worn black robe,—the Curé of St. Croix.
Him Valentin met also, and when the two saw each other, there were barriers that fell away in their first interchange of looks.
"My son," said the old man, holding out his hands, "tell me the truth."
Then Valentin fell into a chair and hid his face
"She is dying," he said, "and I cannot ask that she should live."