soul of the dying woman. The souls of all the dying she commended to the care of Saint Francis. He was her saint whom she adored since she was a little girl.
At last she arose and opening the little bag she brought with her took out a powder which she dissolved in water and swallowed. Sister Annunziata was ill herself. Lately she had reached the age when her body was sometimes racked with pain and her mind seemed vague and confused and clouded. Twice lately she had had visions in which she saw Saint Francis far off in the midst of a bright field filled with little daisies and primroses. He appeared to be beckoning to her but he came no nearer. He was the simple Saint Francis of Giotto's picture that hung in her room years ago at Venterollo. Lately she prayed at times to him for some miraculous sign of his approbation. She prayed that Saint Francis would show her a sign of his love. . . .
After bending once more over the sick woman she seated herself by the bed and took out of her bag a little worn leather-bound copy of The Little Flowers of Saint Francis and began to read. Once she had known it all by heart but lately with her trouble she seemed unable to remember the verses in their proper order. She was forced to hold the book close to her face in the dim light because her eyes were weak and swollen.
As she sat reading the little birds, who had been watching her with bright eyes from the tops of the cages, appeared to lose their fear and flew down in small confused groups of two and three to perch once more on the foot of the iron bed.
