However, Fabre was not yet at the end of his Calvary. Contrary to the expectation of the doctors, a return of strength enabled him to live to see another Spring, and it needed nothing less than the terrible shocks of the tempest unloosed upon Europe to overcome the powers of resistance that had braved so many storms. During the summer of 1915 his weakness grew more marked, so that there was no hope of many more days of life. The curé of Sérignan having been mobilised, the absence of the priest at this time was a cause of great anxiety to Sister Adrienne—always on the watch for the soul ready to escape her. Providence happily came to her assistance; and a Breton priest, who had come to the South to recover his health, and had for some time been acquainted with the master, was admitted to terms of intimacy. After some hesitation he decided to speak to the scientist of the Sacrament of Penitence. With that beautiful simplicity of his, and to the astonishment of the priest, Fabre, who seemed expecting the invitation, replied: “Whenever you will.” “Purified by absolution, fortified by the Extreme Unction, received, in full consciousness, into the Church, Fabre displayed a wonderful serenity. Pressing the hand of the priest who was officiating, he listened to the recommendation of the soul. And when he heard the sacred words that were familiar to him—In manus tuus, Domine—his lips moved as though to pronounce the Amen of supreme acceptance, while his gaze, which was beginning to grow dim, settled upon the Sister’s crucifix.” It was the 11th October 1915, at six o’clock of the evening, that the great scientist so gently surrendered his soul to God. The obsequies, celebrated on the 16th October, “were simple and affecting, as he would have liked them to be. For a few moments before leaving the church, the old naturalist’s fine face was again exposed. It reflected an immense serenity. On his peaceful features one divined the satisfaction of the man who is departing with his work accomplished. In his parchment-like hands he clasped a wooden crucifix with ivory tips. Beside his head was a wreath of laurestinus. Beside one arm was his great black felt hat.” The service was celebrated by the Arch-priest of Orange, in the little church; and then the harsh, rocky soil received the body of him who had so often stooped over it. This “life of J. H. Fabre told by himself” would not be complete if we did not give here the text of the epitaph which he himself had composed beforehand. It is magnificent: it gives one the impression of an unfurling of wings: “Quos periisse putamus Præmissi sunt. Minime finis, sed limen Vitæ excelsioris.”