A miracle?
Mrs. Wharton.
No sooner had the bread and the wine touched his lips than he was transfigured. All his—his anxiety left him, and he was once more his dear, good, brave self. He was quite happy to die. It was as though an unseen hand had pulled back a dark curtain of clouds and he saw before him, not night and a black coldness, but a path of golden sunshine that led straight to the arms of God.
Sylvia.
I’m so glad. I’m happy too now.
Mrs. Wharton.
The Vicar read the prayers for the dying and then he left us. We talked of the past and of our reunion in a little while. And then he died.
Sylvia.
It’s wonderful. Yes, it was a miracle.
Mrs. Wharton.