And when all was said,
The sick man, exhausted, droop'd backward his head,
And fell into a feverish slumber.
Long while
Sat the Soeur Seraphine, in deep thought. The still smile
That was wont, angel-wise, to inhabit her face
And made it like heaven, was fled from its place
In her eyes, on her lips; and a deep sadness there
Seem'd to darken the lines of long sorrow and care,
As low to herself she sigh'd . . .
"Hath it, Eugene,
Been so long, then, the struggle? . . . and yet, all in vain!
Nay, not all in vain! shall the world gain a man,
And yet Heaven lose a soul? Have I done all I can?
Soul to soul, did he say? Soul to soul, be it so!
And then--soul of mine, whither? whither?"
XVIII.
Large, slow,
Silent tears in those deep eyes ascended, and fell.
"HERE, at least, I have fail'd not" . . . she mused . . . "this is well!"
She drew from her bosom two letters.
In one,
A mother's heart, wild with alarm for her son,
Breathed bitterly forth its despairing appeal.
"The pledge of a love owed to thee, O Lucile!
The hope of a home saved by thee--of a heart
Which hath never since then (thrice endear'd as thou art!)
Ceased to bless thee, to pray for thee, save! save my son!
And if not" . . . the letter went brokenly on,
"Heaven help us!"
Then follow'd, from Alfred, a few
Blotted heart-broken pages.
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