"And do you promise never to leave me till I die? Say, will you stay with me?"
"I will indeed do all I can; for the present I must go. Will you let me put this around you?" (It was a medal of the Immaculate Conception.)
"Yes," she replied, and took it with a trembling hand.
"Are you a Catholic?" I asked, startled by the haste with which she seized it.
"I am, sister," and then a burning blush came over her face. "I am, but a guilty, ungrateful one."
"Then will you say some short prayers, while I go and visit my other patients?"
"I will, but it is long since I have said a prayer."
At the end of an hour I returned, and found her weeping bitterly. She took my hand and kissed it. I tried to quiet her excessive grief. I said, "Do not cry, my child. Tell me, can I help you—can I do anything for you? My name is Sister Magdalen; what shall I call you?" She looked up with a sad face, and replied, "My name is Eva." "Well, then, Eva, be comforted; if you have sinned, there is mercy and hope for you; if you are unhappy, there is comfort. Look at this;" and I gave her my crucifix—"does not this teach you to love and hope?" There was no answer, nothing but bitter sobs. I knelt down, and said the Memorare, and then, taking Eva's hand, I was about to speak, when she said, "Sister, sister, when I am better, and have strength to talk, I will tell you my history, and you shall teach me to be better."
Day after day passed on, and she became so ill that we thought she must die; but God so willed it that she began to improve, and, at last, was able to speak and think rationally again. One evening I sat by her bed, saying the rosary while she slept, when, looking suddenly at her, I found her eyes open, and fixed upon me intently.