lessed Virgin did not grant my prayer, she did not restore your
faith, and I am very, very wretched."

She was weeping, a hot tear fell upon the priest's hand, which she was
still holding. It quite upset him, and he ceased struggling, confessing,
in his turn letting his tears flow, whilst, in a very low voice, he
stammered: "Ah! Marie, I am very wretched also. Oh! so very wretched."

For a moment they remained silent, in their cruel grief at feeling that
the abyss which parts different beliefs was yawning between them. They
would never belong to one another again, and they were in despair at
being so utterly unable to bring themselves nearer to one another; but
the severance was henceforth definitive, since Heaven itself had been
unable to reconnect the bond. And thus, side by side, they wept over
their separation.

"I who prayed so fervently for your conversion," she said in a dolorous
voice, "I who was so happy. It had seemed to me that your soul was
mingling with mine; and it was so delightful to have been saved together,
together. I felt such strength for life; oh, strength enough to raise the
world!"

He did not answer; his tears were still flowing, flowing without end.

"And to think," she resumed, "that I was saved all alone; that this great
happiness fell upon me without you having any share in it. And to see you
so forsaken, so desolate, when I am loaded with grace and joy, rends my
heart. Ah! how severe the Blessed Virgin has been! Why did she not heal
your soul at the same time that she healed my body?"

The last opportunity was presenting itself; he ought to have illumined
this innocent creature's mind with the light of reason, have explained
the miracle to her, in order that life, after accomplishing its healthful
work in her body, might complete its triumph by throwing them into one
another's arms. He also was healed, his mind was healthy now, and it was
not for the loss of faith, but for the loss of herself, that he was
weeping. However, invincible compassion was taking possession of him
amidst all his grief. No, no, he would not trouble that dear soul; he
would not rob her of her belief, which some day might prove her only stay
amidst the sorrows of this world. One cannot yet require of children and
women the bitter heroism of reason. He had not the strength to do it; he
even thought that he had not the right. It would have seemed to him
violation, abominable murder. And he did not speak out, but hi