As Monsieur l'AbbÉ Picot's illness grew and he became largely unconscious as to what was going on about him, the more closely Nance confined herself to nursing. Because of many urgent calls I was forced to be away from them more than I liked, but old Doctor Longstreet spent many hours of each day reading in the library, adjoining the bedroom, in case he should be needed. But dear little Nance, whose face became thin and whose eyes grew large with watching, scarcely left her patient.

Then there came the day when old Prosper went across the river in a small skiff to a neighboring city a few miles away, returning two hours later with the parish priest. He was an old man of delicate frame, with the thoughtful, patient cast of countenance of the student. After the confession, upon his return to the library, his face wore a very gentle and peaceful expression. I have wondered at the strange words he must have heard. He came from a charge whose sins were doubtless exceedingly commonplace. Was there any rare and startling tale stirring his heart? What were the struggles and experiences of the soul of this adventurous brother of St. Francis of Assisi? If there was anything to startle, it could be guessed only from the preoccupied manner in which he sat looking into the fire with eyes which, when you caught them, were brimming with wonder and with tears. The three of us, though no words were then or ever spoken, shared with profound sympathy a common sorrow, which we alone fully understood.

"I shall remain with you," he said. We nodded our approval, his being the only words spoken.

All night long we kept a prayerful vigil beside the troubled bed of Monsieur l'AbbÉ. For hours I leaned above him in the darkened room, lit only by the firelight, giving him what assistance and relief lay in my power. Nance, at the east window, gazed out into the impenetrable darkness. For hours at a time she stood and looked as into space and without so much as moving. Now and then she came to my side and raised questioning eyes to my face. Upon shaking my head she would return to her place, like a sentinel upon duty. At last, when the gray dawn shone ghastly and ugly over the snow-covered landscape, my patient appeared to grow easier and from a restless suffering night he sank into a very gentle sleep. I closed the curtains about his bed and, stealing softly across the floor, stood beside Nance.

The day was breaking. Together we stood and watched the sky turn from its sickly pallor of many weeks' duration into wonderful shades of gold and then to glorious crimson. All of the east was streaked with red. Together we watched the winter's sun peep over the edge of the world and restore the hope of the land with a smile. Together we stood and watched and waited while the Master painted. Unconscious of anything but the present need of the heart, forgetful of anything which now lay eternally behind, I tenderly placed my arm about her, and Nance, with the sob of a grief-stricken child, laid her weary head upon my breast. The sunlight from over the hills and the river burst into the room like an irresponsible, happy youth and flooded it with light.

"I shall need you very much now, dear," she said simply. Suddenly from the bed we heard him call:

"My children!"

We hastened to his side and drew the curtains.

"The sun!" exclaimed he. "I own the sun," he smiled at me.

Then for a moment he caressed it and seemed to drink in its life and beauty as it shone in lusty splendor upon his counterpane.

"Will you place some pillows behind me?" he requested.

"Now, that will do. Thank you, my dear-a," he smiled feebly at Nance, who had deftly arranged him so that he half-way sat up.

"Ah, my little jade, I'm off for the long, white highway.... My children, yours is the old home—

"Do not interrupt me!" he exclaimed. "I must speak now, for they are waiting, for me.... The old house, the old Prosper, the books, and my pleasant ghosts—I shall leave them and yet take them, that being a special privilege allowed choice spirits—all, all yours, my dears.... As for me," here he smiled in an old familiar whimsical way, "I'm off for Paradise!"

Nance fell sobbing to her knees and buried her face in her hands.

"What," he cried, with unnatural strength, accompanied by flights of fantasy, "have you not heard me say, many's the time, that when I should come to die—"

He stopped long enough to place a hand upon the head of the kneeling girl.

"Ah, Nance, the word must not hurt you.... When I should come to die," he continued, "I hoped to find myself, on passing, in a certain little house in the Rue St. Jacques, with Rogue and Columbine waiting at the door while the good angel would be saying, 'Monsieur Picot, my compliments.... Here, my dear Monsieur, there are no poor, no sick, no broken-hearted. There is nothing at all to be done—no task for the little AbbÉ of the Church of the Street. Take your blessed caravan and follow le long trimard of your heart's desire.... I—I, eternal Wayfarer, am Death, and this—this is Paradise.'

"Au revoir, my son.... Au revoir, my daughter.... I'm off—off for France!" Here he seemed to gather a moment's strength.... He attempted to sing:

"I'm off, my dear-a, for Picardy, for beautiful Amiens, Rouen, to black Rennes, for dear old Paris, for the road from Lille to Dunkerque."

Here his voice grew faint and it was with an effort he whispered:

"Sometimes, my dear-a, come here to the green and watch for me as of old.... Who knows? Who knows, my children? Perhaps I shall be gone forever and a day.... Perhaps," and he rose from his pillows, "perhaps—au revoir—

"Rogue, you sacrÉ pig of a zebra, home.... Home!"

And Monsieur l'AbbÉ Jacques Picot had gone upon his journey.