uniform, on a prancing charger, victorious in battle, like the
great Generals whose portraits she had seen one Sunday at Versailles:

_But for the nonce, on mother's breast,
Sweet wee general, take thy rest._

But when night was creeping into the room, a new picture would
dazzle her eyes, a picture this of other and incomparably greater
glories.

Proud in her motherhood, yet humble too at heart, she was gazing
from the dim recesses of a sanctuary at her son, her Jean, clad
in sacerdotal vestments, lifting the monstrance in the vaulted
choir censed by the beating wings of half-seen Cherubim. And she
would tremble awestruck as if she were the mother of a god, this
poor sick work-woman whose puling child lay beside her drooping
in the poisoned air of a back-shop:

_But for the nonce, on mother's breast,
My sweet boy-bishop, take thy rest._

One evening, as her husband handed her a cooling drink, she said
to him in a tone of regret:

"Why did you disturb me? I could see the Holy Virgin among flowers
and precious stones and lights. It was so beautiful! so beautiful!"

She said she was no longer in pain, that she wished her Jean to
learn Latin. And she passed away.