ild."

"Oh! if God would only spare her, if He would only spare her! If He
would only open a way so we need not tell her!"

Her brain was in a whirl as she mounted the stairs; she was stunned,
broken. Of one thing only was she perfectly conscious. Philippe was
coming and his mother must be awakened. That mother's last words as she
had closed her eyes were:

"I am strangely weary, Cecile, weary and very drowsy. I think I shall
sleep a little, but be sure and wake me when Philippe comes."

Wake her when Philippe comes! Yes, for Philippe _is_ coming and his
mother must be wakened.

They stood beside the couch and looked down upon the sleeping woman. How
quietly she rested there, how still she was and peaceful! But how _very_
still she was, and what was that scarcely palpable shadow resting on the
sweet, calm face? Was it only a shade cast by the lamp which Cecile had
brought in and placed upon a table behind them, or was it----?

With a cry of alarm, the girl fell on her knees and caught frantically
at her mother's hand. It lay in hers absolutely passive and cold, so
cold. The priest raised the lamp till the light shone full upon the face
of the sleeper. Sleeping she was indeed, the last long sleep from which
not they, not Philippe, not anyone could waken her.

Father Anselm laid his hand on the head of the stricken girl and said
gently:

"A moment ago, my child, you prayed that God might spare her. He had
granted your prayer even before it was uttered. We need not tell her now
for she has learned it all from One who could tell it far more gently,
far more mercifully than we could."

The sound of shuffling steps, as of men who carried a heavy burden, came
up to them from the gravel walk below.

"Requiescant in pace," whispered the priest.

Cecile knelt as if turned to stone. Mechanically, she listened to the
voice of the priest reciting the De Profundis; she listened to the call
of the crickets shrilling through the summer night without; she listened
to the heart-breaking sobs of faithful black Mandy crouching on the
floor by the side of her "li'l Missy;" she listened to those shuffling
footsteps as they entered the house, slowly mounted the staircase and
paused at the door of what had once been Philippe's room.

Yet again the priest's voice recited:

"Requiescant in pace."

And this time, Cecile, laying her cheek upon the dear cold hand she held
in hers, responded brokenly:

"Amen."

End of Pr