She felt it; her work was done. She had exhausted, as Augustin says, all the hope of the century--_consumpta spe sæculi_. For her the parting was near. This ecstasy was that of one dying, who has raised a corner of the veil, and who no longer belongs to this world. * * * * * And, in fact, five or six days later she fell ill. She had fever. The climate of Ostia bred fevers, as it does to-day, and it was always unsanitary on account of all the foreigners who brought in every infection of the Orient. Furthermore, the weariness of a long journey in summer had worn out this woman, old before her time. She had to go to bed. Soon she got worse, and then lost consciousness. They believed she was in the agony. They all came round her bed--Augustin, his brother Navigius, Evodius, the two cousins from Thagaste, Rusticus, and Lastidianus. But suddenly she shuddered, raised herself, and asked in a bewildered way: "Where was I?" Then, seeing the grief on their faces, she knew that she was lost, and she said in a steady voice: "You will bury your mother here." Navigius, frightened by this sight of death, protested with all his affection for her: "No. You will get well, mother. You will come home again. You won't die in a foreign land." She looked at him with sorrowful eyes, as if hurt that he spoke so little like a Christian, and turning to Augustin: "See how he talks," she said. And after a silence, she went on in a firmer voice, as if to impress on her sons her final wishes: "Lay this body where you will, and be not anxious about it. Only I beseech you, remember me at the altar of God, wherever you are." That was the supreme renunciation. How could an African woman, so much attached to her country, agree to be buried in a stranger soil? Pagan notions were still very strong in this community, and the place of burial was an important consideration. Monnica, like all other widows, had settled upon hers. At Thagaste she had had her place prepared beside her husband Patricius. And here now she appeared to give that up. Augustin's companions were astonished at such abnegation. As for himself, he marvelled at the completeness of the change worked in his mother's soul by Grace. And as he thought over all the virtues of her life, the strength of her faith--from that moment, he had no doubt that she was a saint. She still lingered for some time. Finally, on the ninth day of her illness, she died at the age of fifty-six.