The first day that I took Millicent Gray to see her she was in one of these blessed, penitential moods. It had lasted through several days—days of fearful suffering, and nights of sleepless weariness. She uttered an exclamation of joyous welcome when I appeared.
“Que le bon Dieu est bon! I knew he would not keep me waiting much longer. My little stock of patience was just coming to an end!” And she smiled good-humoredly.
“What is it you want?” I inquired.
“I was dying with thirst,” she said, “and I managed to draw this cup to me by hooking my finger in the handle, but I was in such a hurry to drink it that it slipped from me, and I am all wet and half-perished!” And, indeed, she was trembling with cold; her hands were like ice and her teeth chattered. I hastened to lift her up on her pillows and repair the accident, Millicent helping very dexterously. I had prepared Mme. Martin for her visit, so merely introduced her as a friend of mine, who would be glad to come and see her sometimes, if she allowed it.
When we had settled her in some degree of comfort, Millicent and I sat down and began to converse. Mme. Martin was in too great pain to join in the conversation, except by throwing in a word now and then to show she was following it, but one could see she was interested in what we were saying. There was an unusual brightness and peace about her, in the expression of her face and the tone of her voice; I rejoiced that Millicent should see it, for I knew it could not fail to impress her.
“Was last night as bad as the preceding ones?” I said when we were going away.
“Yes; it was very bad. I did not get a moment’s rest till it was daylight,” she said; and she smiled quite serenely.
“My poor friend! How cruelly tried you are!” I could not help exclaiming. “May God give you courage!”
“He does! he does!” she cried fervently. “It is a miracle how good he is to me—a miracle.”
“We must ask him for another one, that your courage may be rewarded by a cure,” said Millicent kindly.