She leaned back on the pillows, exhausted for a while with her great effort, but the light of renewed life shone from every feature.
"I am better now," she said, turning to Father Honoré the dark hollow eyes so full of gratitude that the priest looked away from her.
While this page in human history was being laid open before him, Father Honoré said nothing. The confession it contained was so awful in its still depths of pure passion, so far-reaching in its effects on a human soul, that he felt suddenly the utter insignificance of his own existence, the futility of all words, the meagreness of all sympathetic expression. And he was honest enough to withhold all attempt at such.
"I fear you are very tired," he said, and rose to go.
"No, no; I am better already. The telling has done me such good. I shall soon be up and about. When do you go?"
"This afternoon; and you may expect telegrams from me at almost any time; so don't be alarmed simply because I send them. I thought you would prefer to know from day to day."
"You are good—but I can say nothing." The tears welled at last and overflowed on her cheeks.
"Don't say that—I beg of you." He spoke almost sharply, as if hurt physically. "Nothing is needed—and I hope you will let Sister Ste. Croix come in for a few days and care for you. She wants to come."
"Tell her to come. I think I am willing to see any one now—something has given way here;" she pressed her hand to her head; "it's a great relief."
"Good-bye." He held out his hand and she placed hers in it; the tears kept rolling down her cheeks.