eyes could linger on the wondrous apotheosis of pain.
One morning, perhaps ten days after he had succumbed to the illness developed by the almost superhuman toil of the summer, Therese, finding her patient apparently much improved, left him in charge of one of the physicians and went out to take a brief walk. She was gone only a short time, but when she returned she found Hero waiting for her at the gate.
Philip had been asking for her. With a feeling as if her whole life had paused for a moment, she trembled and leaned against the black creature for support; then the weakness was conquered, and she entered the house. At the threshold of the sick room she was met by the grave face of the doctor. "It is all over," he said gently. "Come and see how quietly he died,—without a pang or a struggle."
He led her to the bedside. Therese looked at him for a moment, and then, kneeling beside him, whispered:
"Look! it is the face of the dead Christ of the crucifix!"
Even as the stigmata appeared of old on the body of St. Francis, so was the shadow of that face reflected on the dead face of Philip Rondelet, a weak and sinful man, who had given his life to save his fellow-men.
