"Next morning, I received a visit from Sister Marie (of St. Vincent de Paul's parish), who brought me some assistance, encouraged me to support my sufferings, and did her best to console me. I can truly say that happiness entered my house with this good Sister. She soon sent a physician, who, after examining me and understanding my case, told her, as I have since learned, that it was a hopeless one, I had a very little while to live, and ought to be sent to the hospital to spare my family the sad spectacle of my death. Hearing this, Sister Marie believed it her duty to give my soul especial attention. I was not an enemy to religion, but I was not very practical; I went sometimes to the parish functions, when my sufferings and occupations permitted, but (and I say it to my shame) I had not approached the Sacraments for years. When the Sister, after several other questions, asked me if I went to confession, blushing, I said 'no.' She begged me to do so, and I replied: 'When I am cured, I will.' The good Sister, little satisfied with my evasive answer, urged me again to see a priest. 'Sister,' said I, 'I don't like to be persecuted with things of this sort, when I am cured I will go to confession.' I saw that this answer grieved her, but she never remitted her visits and kind attentions. My malady increased. One Saturday or Sunday night, at the commencement of October, 1834, my whole body was cold, and vainly did my friends endeavor to restore a natural warmth, the chill of death seemed on me. They spoke of reciting the prayers for the dying; I understood a part of what was said, but myself was speechless. Whilst I was so ill, my husband told our eldest daughter to go to bed, and he, thinking me easier because I was feebly breathing, threw himself, without undressing, upon the bed to snatch a little repose; but, getting up a few minutes later, he came to me, put his hand on my face, and was horrified to find it covered with a cold sweat. He thought me dead, and called aloud: 'Euphemie,' (this is our eldest daughter's name), 'Euphemie, alas! thy mother is dead!' Euphemie arose and mingled her lamentations with those of her father. Their cries awakened Madame Pellevé, our neighbor, who came to console them. 'Ah! madame,' said my husband, on seeing her, 'my wife is dead!' Having begged him to be resigned to God's will, this lady approached me, and, placing her hand upon my heart: 'No,' she exclaimed, 'she is not dead, her heart still beats.' They kindled a fire, and succeeded in restoring a little warmth to my body.