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faith,—were to her as the cool dew to a flower that has been
trodden under foot. Though it cannot rise again, neither
does it wither; it still spreads delicate, brightly tinted petals
to the sun, and is still fair and fragrant in lingering
freshness. So with her. There was balm in seeing herself pure
and holy and unsullied in the thoughts of another person.
It well-nigh made her whole again to know that she could
rouse that clear-eyed trust, that fair hope and noble
longing which enriched the soul of him in whom they awoke.
There was comfort and healing in hinting of her sorrows
in shadowy images and veiled words to one who, himself
untried by grief, would enter into her suffering with a
serene joy, grateful to share the trouble he guessed but did
not understand and yet sympathized with. Ay, it was a
comfort to pour out her grief where it met reverence and
not pity, where it became a splendid queenly robe around her
shoulders and a tear-sparkling diadem around her brow.
Thus Marie little by little grew reconciled to herself, but
then it happened one day, when Remigius was out riding,
that his horse shied, threw him from the saddle, and dragged
him to death by the stirrups.
When the news was brought to Marie, she sank into
a dull, heavy, tearless misery. She would sit for hours,
staring straight before her with a weary, empty look, silent as
if she had been bereft of the power of speech, and refusing
to exert herself in any way. She could not even bear to be
spoken to; if any one tried it, she would make a feeble
gesture of protest and shake her head as if the sound pained her.
Time passed, and her money dwindled, until there was
barely enough left to take them home. Lucie never tired of
urging this fact upon her, but it was long before she could
make Marie listen.
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