She is all that an artist's wife should be; she sees to everything; she takes care of my material wants without ever troubling or worrying me.'" "No, Joseph, no; you have loved me, but I have not returned you love for love.

Ah! would that I could live a little longer--Give me your hand." Agathe took her son's hand, kissed it, held it on her heart, and looked in his face a long time,--letting him see the azure of her eyes resplendent with a tenderness she had hitherto bestowed on Philippe only.

The painter, well fitted to judge of expression, was so struck by the change, and saw so plainly how the heart of his mother had opened to him, that he took her in his arms, and held her for some moments to his heart, crying out like one beside himself,--"My mother! oh, my mother!" "Ah! I feel that I am forgiven!" she said.

"God will confirm the child's pardon of its mother." "You must be calm: don't torment yourself; hear me.

I feel myself loved enough in this one moment for all the past," he said, as he laid her back upon the pillows.
During the two weeks' struggle between life and death, there glowed such love in every look and gesture and impulse of the soul of the pious creature, that each effusion of her feelings seemed like the expression of a lifetime.