She drew a deep sigh and added-- "And what happiness death gives too!" It was their last talk together. Myrrha lay in bed for several days, motionless and silent, without opening her eyes. She may have suffered much, for her brows would sometimes contract with pain; but a gentle smile of resignation would follow; not a groan, not a complaint escaped the closed lips. Once, at midnight, she called Arsinoë, who was sitting beside her. The sick girl spoke with difficulty; she asked, without opening her eyes-- "Is it yet day?" "No, night still," answered Arsinoë, "but the sun will soon rise." "I cannot hear.... Who are you?" Myrrha murmured indistinctly. "It is I, Arsinoë." The invalid suddenly opened her wide luminous eyes and gazed fixedly on her sister. "It seemed to me," said Myrrha with an effort, "it seemed to me that it was not you ... that I was utterly alone." Then very slowly, with great difficulty, being scarcely able to move, she brought her transparent hands together, with an imploring look of fear. The corners of the lips trembled, the eyebrows moved. "Do not abandon me! When I die, do not think that I am no more!" Arsinoë leaned towards her, but Myrrha was too weak to kiss her, although she tried to do so. Arsinoë brought her cheek closer to the great eyes, and the young girl softly caressed her face with the long lashes. Arsinoë felt on her cheek a touch light as butterfly's velvety wings. It was a trick invented by Myrrha in childhood. That last caress brought back to Arsinoë all their life together, all their mutual affection. She fell on her knees and, for the first time for years, sobbed irresistibly, as if the tears were melting her inmost heart. "No, Myrrha," she said, "I will not abandon you.... I will stay with you always!" Myrrha's eyes grew animated and joyous; she faltered-- "Then you----" "Yes; I long to believe; _I will believe!_" exclaimed Arsinoë, and immediately wondered. Those words appeared a miracle to herself, and no deception. She had no wish to recall them. "I will go into the desert, Myrrha; like you, instead of you," she continued in a transport of wild love; "and, if God exists, He must grant that there shall be no death between us; so that we _shall_ be always together." Myrrha closed her eyes, listening to her sister. With a smile of infinite peace, she murmured-- "Now, I will go to sleep. I want nothing more. I am well." She never opened her eyes or spoke again; her face was calm and severe as the face of the dead; and in this state she lived on several days longer. When a cup of wine was brought near to her lips, she would swallow a few mouthfuls. If her breathing became nervous and irregular, Juventinus would chant a prayer or some divine hymn, and then, as if soothed, Myrrha began to breathe more easily.