Then, with a piercing cry, she stretched out her arms pleadingly, saying: “Master! Master! I may not look upon the glory of Thy face, but Thou wilt hear me! Oh! Thou lover of little children--pause--pause! They lie so near Thee, but one step away! Thou wilt not pass them by! Summon them, Son of Mary! always pitiful to mothers, pity me! and summon them! Ah! the Hand is raised--the Blessed Hand, irradiating Light--is raised, and there--there--Oh King of Kings!--they are there! Hand clasped in hand--at the Beloved Master’s knee--they smile at me! they raise their little hands, and, Power Supreme! _they make the sign!_”
The room rang with her wild, triumphant cry of joy! She flung her frail arms wide, and repeated: “The sign! The sign!” then, “Yes, my dearies, mother’s coming! We will fall down and worship, and then we will all go on together!”
Her arms dropped suddenly--her black eyes closed--and she fell sidewise into my arms; and even in the very moment of placing her upon her pillow I cast one glance through the uncovered window and saw but the sullen sky bending low over the still more sullen lake.
She never opened her eyes again, and as she lay there so still, so white, I could not but notice how gentle her face had grown, and bending down for the first and last time, I kissed her tenderly. A slow smile came about her lips, and she spoke for the last time, when she said softly, happily: “The sign! _It is_ the sign!”
A moment later there was a long sigh, broken by a shiver, and then stillness, perfect stillness, and I whispered: “They have all gone on together!”
I saw it in the _Herald_ this morning: “In Paris suddenly, Madame de B----.” Nothing remarkable about that announcement. Nothing to affect the general reader, but to me the letters were luminous.
“In Paris suddenly, Madame Miriam de B----.” The creep is in my blood yet, for you see, I met Madame Miriam de B---- once, and if I were to live in this world even unto a hundred years, I should not forget that brief meeting.
The house was crowded; we were yet in the first act of the running play, one night, when a companion, a young society woman (who was trying to unlearn in a theatre all she had been taught as an amateur) edged close to me and whispered: “Look at the woman in the box; is she not beautiful?”