The night hours passed, and still she softly paced, or tranquilly seated herself, without the falling of a tear, and only now and then a long deep breath rather than a sigh.
At last she took all the flowers--dry, yellow, lustreless--and opened a sheet of white paper.

She laid them in it, and the brown womanly eyes looked at them with yearning fondness.

She sat motionless, as if she could not prevail upon herself to fold the paper.

But at length she sank gradually to her knees--a sinless Magdalen; her brown hair fell about her bending face, and she said, although her lips did not move, "To each, in his degree, the cup is given.

Oh, Father! strengthen each to drain it and believe!" She rose quietly and folded the paper, with the loving care and lingering delay with which a mother smooths the shroud that wraps her baby.