to receive it. I have heard it said that the greatest miracle of all at
Lourdes is the peace and resignation, even the happiness, of those who,
after expectation has been wrought to the highest, go disappointed away,
as sick as they came. Certainly that is an amazing fact. The tears of
the young man in the _piscine_ were the only tears of sorrow I saw at
Lourdes.

Mary, then, has appeared to me in a new light since I have visited
Lourdes. I shall in future not only hate to offend her, but fear it
also. It is a fearful thing to fall into the hands of that Mother who
allows the broken sufferer to crawl across France to her feet--and then
to crawl back again. She is one of the Maries of Chartres, that reveals
herself here, dark, mighty, dominant, and all but inexorable; not the
Mary of an ecclesiastical shop, who dwells amid tinsel and tuberoses.
She is _Sedes Sapientiæ_, _Turris Eburnea_, _Virgo Paritura_, strong and
tall and glorious, pierced by seven swords, yet serene as she looks to
her Son.

Yet, at the same time, the tenderness of her great heart shows itself at
Lourdes almost beyond bearing. She is so great and so loving! It affects
those to whom one speaks--the quiet doctors, even those who, through
some confusion of mind or some sin, find it hard to believe; the strong
_brancardiers_, who carry their quivering burdens with such infinite
care; the very sick themselves, coming back from the _piscines_ in
agony, yet with the faces of those who come down from the altar after
Holy Communion. The whole place is alive with Mary and the love of
God--from the inadequate statue at the Grotto to the brazen garlands in
the square, even as far as the illuminated castle and the rockets that
burst and bang against the steady stars. If I were sick of some deadly
disease, and it were revealed to me that I must die, yet none the less I