"'My dear child,' said he, 'our overwrought imagination often cheats us with illusions which must be relegated to the realms of dream. Nevertheless, the Church teaches us that such marvels can really take place. It is not for us in our ignorance to set limit to the power of God. It is not for us to question the decrees of Him who took the worlds into his hand and launched them into space. I accept, then, the vision, and I will explain it to you. This priest, coming from the tomb to say a mass, doubtless obtained God's permission to fulfill part of his sacred ministry which he had left undone; and the sexton, by forgetfulness or negligence, was probably the cause of his omission. The children crowned with immortelles are those who died with their baptismal grace unimpaired. They who carried baskets of flowers or vases of perfume are those whose mothers gave them up to God with holy resignation, comforted by the thought that they were exchanging this world of pain for the celestial country and the ineffable light about the throne. In the little cups of gold and silver were the tears of mothers who, though torn by the anguish of their loss yet taught themselves to cry: "The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."' "On her knees the poor mother drank in the old man's words. As Martha exclaimed at the feet of Christ, 'Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. But I know that even now, whatever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee,' even so the poor mother cried in her ardent faith, 'If thou hadst been with me, my father, my little one would not have died; but I know that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee.' "The good monk reflected a moment and prayed God for wisdom. It was a sentence of life or of death that he was about to pronounce upon this mother who appeared inconsolable. He was about to strike a blow which should either restore her to reason or break her heart forever. He took her hands in his withered and trembling clasp, and said gently: "'You loved, then, this child whom you have lost?' "'Loved her? My God, what a question!' And she threw herself moaning at his feet. Then, raising herself suddenly, she grasped the skirt of his cassock and besought him through her sobs: 'You are a saint, my father; oh, give me back my child--my darling!' "'Yes,' said the monk, 'you loved your little one. Doubtless you would have done much to spare her even the lightest grief?' "'Anything, everything, my father!' exclaimed the poor woman; 'I would have been rolled on the hot coals to spare her a little burn.' "'I believe you,' said the monk; 'and doubtless you love her yet?' "'Do I love her? Merciful Heaven!' cried the wretched mother, springing to her feet as if bitten by a serpent; 'I see, priest, that you know little of a mother's love if you imagine death can efface it.' And trembling from head to foot, she burst again into a torrent of tears.