He was silent; then, changing the subject, he said,—
"And do you still hold communion with Heaven, Madame Bavoil?"
"No," she answered, sadly. "I no longer have any converse or any visions. I am deaf and blind. God is silent to me."
She shook her head, and, after a pause, she added, speaking to herself,—
"Such a little thing is enough to displease Him. If He detects a trace of vanity in the soul on which He shines, He departs. And as the Father tells me, the mere fact of having spoken of the special graces vouchsafed to me by Jesus, proves that I am not humble. In short, His will be done!—And you, our friend, do you still think of taking shelter in a cloister?"
"I—my spirit still craves a truce; my soul is but shifting ballast."
"Because, no doubt, you are not honest in your dealings. You behave as if you meant to strike a bargain with Him; that is not the way to set to work."
"What would you do in my place?"
"I should be generous; I should say to Him, 'Here I am, do with me as Thou wilt. I give myself unconditionally to Thee. I ask but one thing: Help me to love Thee.'"
"And do you suppose that I have not blamed myself for my cowardice of heart?"