h he gathered the Sisters of Charity
together and gave them a conference on the saintly death of their
Superior. With touching humility he asked his dear daughters to pardon
him for all the faults by which he might have offended them, for any
annoyance that his "want of polish" might have caused them, and he
thanked them for their faithful cooperation in all his schemes of
charity.

It was now such agony for him to walk to the chapel that his sons
begged him to allow them to fit up a little oratory next to his room
where Mass might be said, but Vincent would not hear of it. Then they
implored him to allow himself to be carried in a chair, but, unwilling
to give others the trouble of carrying him, he evaded the question
until six weeks before his death, when he could no longer support
himself on his crutches. During the nights of anguish, when his
tortured limbs could find no rest on the hard straw mattress which he
could never be prevailed upon to change for something softer, no
complaint ever passed his lips. "My Saviour, my dear Saviour" was his
only exclamation. On the days that followed these sleepless nights of
pain, he was always smiling and serene. In spite of the weakness that
oppressed him, he had help, advice and sympathy for everybody.

His reward was close at hand. On the 26th of September, 1660, having
been carried to the chapel for Mass and Holy Communion, he was taken
back to his room, where he fell asleep in his chair from sheer
exhaustion, as he had so often done before. The brother who had charge
of him, thinking that he slept longer and more heavily than usual,
awakened him and spoke to him. Vincent smiled and answered, but
instantly fell asleep again. The doctor was sent for, and roused him
again. Once more the same bright smile lit up the old face; he
answered, but had not sufficient strength to speak more than a few
words. In the evening they gave him the Last Sacraments, and he passed
the night in silent prayer. In the early morning one of the priests
who belonged to the "Conferences," and who was making a retreat in the
house, asked the dying man to bless all the priests for whom he had
done so much and to pray that his spirit might be with them. "May God,
who began the good work, bring it to perfection," was the humble
answer.

A little later he was heard to murmur softly, "_Confido_"--"I trust";
and with these words on his lips, as a child puts its hand into that
of his Father, he gently ga