tence returning to reign on earth, sweeping the laws of the world
aside in order to work the happiness of the suffering and the poor. The
miracles multiplied, blazed forth, from day to day more and more
extraordinary, like unimpeachable proof of Bernadette's veracity. And she
was, indeed, the rose of the divine garden, whose deeds shed perfume, the
rose who beholds all the other flowers of grace and salvation spring into
being around her.

Pierre had reached this point of his story, and was again enumerating the
miracles, on the point of recounting the prodigious triumph of the
Grotto, when Sister Hyacinthe, awaking with a start from the ecstasy into
which the narrative had plunged her, hastily rose to her feet. "Really,
really," said she, "there is no sense in it. It will soon be eleven
o'clock."

This was true. They had left Morceux behind them, and would now soon be
at Mont de Marsan. So Sister Hyacinthe clapped her hands once more, and
added: "Silence, my children, silence!"

This time they did not dare to rebel, for they felt she was in the right;
they were unreasonable. But how greatly they regretted not hearing the
continuation, how vexed they were that the story should cease when only
half told! The ten women in the farther compartment even let a murmur of
disappointment escape them; whilst the sick, their faces still
outstretched, their dilated eyes gazing upon the light of hope, seemed to
be yet listening. Those miracles which ever and ever returned to their
minds and filled them with unlimited, haunting, supernatural joy.

"And don't let me hear anyone breathe, even," added Sister Hyacinthe
gaily, "or otherwise I shall impose penance on you."

Madame de Jonquiere laughed good-naturedly. "You must obey, my children,"
she said; "be good and get to sleep, so that you may have strength to
pray at the Grotto to-morrow with all your hearts."

Then silence fell, nobody spoke any further; and the only sounds were
those of the rumbling of the wheels and the jolting of the train as it
was carried along at full speed through the black night.

Pierre, however, was unable to sleep. Beside him, M. de Guersaint was
already snoring lightly, looking very happy despite the hardness of his
seat. For a time the young priest saw Marie's eyes wide open, still full
of all the radiance of the marvels that he had related. For a long while
she kept them ardently fixed upon his own, but at last closed them, and
then he knew not