She prostrated herself at the tomb of the Magi; she proffered her ardent but humble prayer to Him before whose Son those fleshless heads (yet to faith at least preserved) had, eighteen centuries ago, bowed in adoration.

Twice every day, for a whole week, she sought the same spot, and poured forth the same prayer.

The last day an old priest, who, hovering in the church, had observed her constantly at devotion, with that fatherly interest which the better ministers of the Catholic sect (that sect which has covered the earth with the mansions of charity) feel for the unhappy, approached her as she was retiring with moist and downcast eyes, and saluting her, assumed the privilege of his order to inquire if there was aught in which his advice or aid could serve.
There was something in the venerable air of the old man which encouraged Lucille; she opened her heart to him; she told him all.

The good priest was much moved by her simplicity and earnestness.

He questioned her minutely as to the peculiar species of blindness with which St.Amand was afflicted; and after musing a little while, he said, "Daughter, God is great and merciful; we must trust in His power, but we must not forget that He mostly works by mortal agents.