"Sorrows like mine can never turn into joys, mon ami."
"They can, they will," he cries, in glad excitement. "I know, I feel, that one of your lost ones, at least, will be restored to you."
"Oh! what can you mean?"
In eager hope she rises, looking down at him with eyes that would fain read the secret he had almost betrayed.
"Sit down," he answers, in calmer tones, "and forgive me for startling you so. I only meant that I felt like this, dear friend; and I do feel as if the shadows are passing from your life, and that, ere long, all will be well with you. It is given sometimes, you know, to dying eyes to see very clearly."
A flashing drop from her blue eyes falls down upon the hand that still lies under the soft clasp of hers, and in low tones she answers:
"Hush, now, you had better not talk any more. I fear you will overtask your strength. I am going to read some for you."
And closing his eyes he listens peacefully to the sweet, tremulous voice that reads the fourteenth chapter of St. John, beginning:
"Let not your heart be troubled."