hrivelled up, and she could no
longer open it. Well, she got to Lourdes, and dipped her hand into the
piscina. But as soon as she did so she began to shriek, and took it out
again. Then they caught hold of her and put her hand into the water by
force, and kept it there while she continued sobbing, with her face
covered with sweat. Three times did they plunge her hand into the
piscina, and each time they saw the needle moving along, till it came out
by the tip of the thumb. She shrieked, of course, because the needle was
moving though her flesh just as though somebody had been pushing it to
drive it out. And after that Celestine never suffered again, and only a
little scar could be seen on her hand as a mark of what the Blessed
Virgin had done."

This anecdote produced a greater effect than even the miraculous cures of
the most fearful illnesses. A needle which moved as though somebody were
pushing it! This peopled the Invisible, showed each sufferer his Guardian
Angel standing behind him, only awaiting the orders of Heaven in order to
render him assistance. And besides, how pretty and childlike the story
was--this needle which came out in the miraculous water after obstinately
refusing to stir during seven long years. Exclamations of delight
resounded from all the pleased listeners; they smiled and laughed with
satisfaction, radiant at finding that nothing was beyond the power of
Heaven, and that if it were Heaven's pleasure they themselves would all
become healthy, young, and superb. It was sufficient that one should
fervently believe and pray in order that nature might be confounded and
that the Incredible might come to pass. Apart from that there was merely
a question of good luck, since Heaven seemed to make a selection of those
sufferers who should be cured.

"Oh! how beautiful it is, father," murmured Marie, who, revived by the
passionate interest which she took in the momentous subject, had so far
contented herself with listening, dumb with amazement as it were. "Do you
remember," she continued, "what you yourself told me of that poor woman,
Joachine Dehaut, who came from Belgium and made her way right across
France with her twisted leg eaten away by an ulcer, the awful smell of
which drove everybody away from her? First of all the ulcer was healed;
you could press her knee and she felt nothing, only a slight redness
remained to mark where it had been. And then came the turn of the
dislocation. She shrieked whil