The hour of confidence had come.
Marguerite's management of the household since her mother's illness had amply fulfilled the dying woman's hopes that Madame Claes was able to look upon the future of the family without absolute despair, confident that she herself would live again in this strong and loving angel.

Both women felt, no doubt, that sad and mutual confidences must now be made between them; the daughter looked at the mother, the mother at the daughter, tears flowing from their eyes.

Several times, as Madame Claes rested from her writing, Marguerite said: "Mother ?" then she dropped as if choking; but the mother, occupied with her last thoughts, did not ask the meaning of the interrogation.

At last, Madame Claes wished to seal the letter; Marguerite held the taper, turning aside her head that she might not see the superscription.
"You can read it, my child," said the mother, in a heart-rending voice.
The young girl read the words, "To my daughter Marguerite." "We will talk to each other after I have rested awhile," said Madame Claes, putting the letter under her pillow.
Then she fell back as if exhausted by the effort, and slept for several hours.

When she woke, her two daughters and her two sons were kneeling by her bed and praying.