“There is one thing I’ve thought of,” he whispered. “Her health has put obstacles in the darling child’s way; but her first communion might take place here.” His meaning at first did not seem to dawn on Hélène. The thought that, despite all his indulgence, he should now allow his priestly character the ascendant and evince no concern but in spiritual matters, came on her with surprise, and even wounded her somewhat. With a careless gesture she exclaimed: “No, no; I would rather she wasn’t worried. If there be a heaven, she will have no difficulty in entering its gates.” That evening, however, Jeanne experienced one of those deceptive improvements in health which fill the dying with illusions as to their condition. Her hearing, rendered more acute by illness, had enabled her to catch the Abbé’s words. “It’s you, dear old friend!” said she. “You spoke about the first communion. It will be soon, won’t it?” “No doubt, my darling,” he answered. Then she wanted him to come near to speak to her. Her mother had propped her up with the pillow, and she reclined there, looking very little, with a smile on her fever-burnt lips, and the shadow of death already passing over her brilliant eyes. “Oh! I’m getting on very well,” she began. “I could get up if I wanted. But tell me: should I have a white gown and flowers? Will the church be as beautiful as it was in the Month of Mary?” “More beautiful, my pet.” “Really? Will there be as many flowers, and will there be such sweet chants? It will be soon, soon—you promise me, won’t you?” She was wrapt in joy. She gazed on the curtains of the bed, and murmured in her transport that she was very fond of the good God, and had seen Him while she was listening to the canticles. Even now she could hear organs pealing, see lights that circled round, and flowers in great vases hovering like butterflies before her eyes. Then another fit of coughing threw her back on the pillow. However, her face was still flushed with a smile; she seemed to be unconscious of her cough, but continued: “I shall get up to-morrow. I shall learn my catechism without a mistake, and we’ll be all very happy.” A sob came from Hélène as she stood at the foot of the bed. She had been powerless to weep, but a storm of tears rushed up from her bosom as Jeanne’s laughter fell on her ear. Then, almost stifling, she fled into the dining-room, that she might hide her despair. The Abbé followed her. Monsieur Rambaud had at once started up to engage the child’s attention. “Oh dear! mamma cried out! Has she hurt herself?” she asked. “Your mamma?” he answered. “No, she didn’t cry out; she was laughing because you are feeling so well.”