“‘OH!’ CRIED HONOR. ‘OH, HOW LOVELY!’”
She burst into wild weeping. Madame Madeleine watched her for a little in silence, letting the tears take their way. Then she rose, and opening a drawer of her little escritoire—they were sitting in her own room, to which we were admitted only on special occasions—took out a small object.
“Dry thy tears, my child!” she said, in her grave, kind voice. “I have something to show thee!”
It was a miniature-case that she held in her hand. She opened it, and Honor, wiping her swollen eyes, bent to look. A girl smiled at her; a girl older than herself, yet still in the freshness of youth: joyous, frank, beautiful as a flower, the eyes alight with happiness, the perfect mouth trembling to a smile.
“Oh!” cried Honor. “Oh, how lovely! how exquisite! Who is it, Madame?”
“It is my sister!” said Madame gravely. “It is Soeur Séraphine, whom you see every day and all day long, Honor.”
Honor looked again.
“I see it is!” Her voice was full of awe. “Of course it is! But—oh, Madame! What—what happened to our Sister?”
Madame Madeleine paused, as if communing with herself.
“Why not?” she said finally. “It may help! Listen, Honor! This was my sister Marie Séraphine at eighteen; that is, so much of her as could be caught and fixed in color. Of herself, the spirit of gayety and mirth that she was, it gives but the shadow. She was betrothed, to a man whom she tenderly loved; a man of whom one can but say that he seemed sent to earth to show what man could be. They were happy; they were to be married, from this very house, where then my beloved husband was still with me. A week before the wedding day—”