Mother Mazzarello, leaning heavily on the arms of two Sisters, stumbled into the convent of the Daughters of Mary Help of Christians at Nice-on-the-Sea. Smiling to all the good nuns who rushed to greet her, she tried to brush away their fears with gentle reassurances. But her face, taut with pain and haggard with long days of illness, belied her words. Her companions rushed her to a room and set her into an armchair.

"Thank you," she said gratefully, attempting a light laugh and failing miserably. "I'm feeling so much better already. Now, Sisters, why those tears? Is that the way to greet your Mother after such a long absence?"

She broke short all their sniffling apologies with a soft, "You must not grieve so. I feel my strength returning already, and I'll soon be as strong as ever. Now go about your work again, and let me rest a moment. "

The sisters reluctantly obeyed, leaving her with an attendant. In the hall, the companions of Mother Mazzarello were the focus of all attention.

How was Mother? Was she improving any? She looked so poorly! The information was far from pleasant.

Mother Mazzarello had left Mornese some two months before to accompany a group of Sisters, who were to go to the Missions of South America, to their port of departure, Genoa. From there she decided to take a ship with a part of the missionary contingent, to stop off at Marseilles, a port of call, and from there to visit the houses of the Sisters in France. Throughout the journey, she suffered from persistent seasickness, but, true to her native stubbornness, she hid her pain behind a smile and a thousand little attentions on her companions. At Marseilles, bitter disappointment waited them. Their ship broke down in sight of the harbor and had to be towed into dry dock for repairs.

Late at night the little group of tired Sisters ventured into the unlit waterfront streets of Marseilles in search of an address where they had been told lodgings had been prepared for them. But, due to a careless blunder, no beds had been made up for the nuns. Noticing her host's utter confusion at having the Sister walk in on him to find no accommodations, Mother Mazzarello speedily assured him they could care for themselves.

"We have clean bedclothes with us. If you can give us some straw, we will shift for ourselves quite easily."

And so, plying her needle, Mother Mazzarello set the example by sewing up an armful of straw in a sheet, setting the bed on the floor, and lying fully clothed upon it. Her companions good-naturedly imitated her and spent a miserable night on the floor with only a few inches of straw to keep the draft off their backs.

The next morning, Mother Mazzarello was unable to rise. A high fever kept her on her straw pallet. Her Sisters clustered about her. But the next morning she staggered to her feet and escorted the Missionaries to their ship, bidding them a tender farewell. Then she hastened to the town of St. Cyr, where the Sisters conducted an orphanage. Once there, she was put to bed for a few days of rest. But the unrelenting fever developed into pleurisy, followed by complications.

For forty days the saintly Mother had been confined to her bed, running high temperatures, spending interminable hours in burning heat and acute pain. Yet, throughout it all, she had always remained the center of joy in the house, calling the Sisters to herself, chatting amiably with them, and endeavoring to make herself as little bother as possible, never realizing that the Sisters treasured every moment they could shower their solicitude on her.

As soon as she felt her strength returning, she decided, against the doctor's orders, to return to Italy, so as to die, she said, in her own community. The Sisters had been heartbroken but, reassured by Don Bosco, who had been to see her, that she would not suffer by it, they acceded to her wishes. Mother had decided to make the journey in short stages. With two companions she had started that morning and would remain at Nice-on-the-Sea for a few days and then proceed to cross the Italian border.

While the Sisters outside hustled about their task, stealing every moment they could for a quick prayer in the chapel for their Mother, their frail patient remained in her room, trying to recover her strength. By good fortune, Don Bosco had just arrived a few hours before her. Knowing of her presence, he went to call on her.

In that little room the two Saints faced each other for the last time. St. John Bosco, sixty years old, looking tired and a little stooped at the shoulders, smiled upon the drawn features of this forty-two year-old woman who had been God's chosen instrument to fulfill a great part of his apostolate for youth. Their names, he knew, would forever be linked together. Now their hearts beat in unison, and their thoughts ran along the same channel, only seeking God's will and endeavoring to burn out their last energies in a flaming holocaust to Him.

"Father," asked Mother Mazzarello, "will I ever recover?"

After a moment's pause, the priest ran his fingers through his bushy hair.

"Mother," he said diplomatically, "I want to tell you a story. Once Death decided to pay a call to a convent. 'Come with me, Sister,' he said to the portress as she opened the door. 'Oh, but I cannot,' the Sister responded. 'There is no one to take my place, and the convent must have a portress.' Death crossed the threshold and stalked through the convent halls. His order was the same for everyone he met: 'Come with me!' The response was invariably: 'I cannot! I have so much work to do!' Finally Death knocked at the door of the Superior's room. 'Come with me,' he announced. 'I cannot!' was the startled reply. But Death would take no excuse. 'If no one else will come, you must!' he ordered, and taking her by the hand, he took her through the convent halls into the dark night"

The Saint stopped. Throughout the narrative, Mother Mazzarello had sat perfectly still, her head bowed, her hands folded on her lap. Now she looked up at Don Bosco, smiling at his delicate handling of a difficult task. The priest arose. How great a woman was this who could not even rise from her chair! He had not been mistaken when he had chosen her years ago to be the cornerstone of the new community of Sisters, a complement to his own Congregation. Now, as then, she was still the guileless, humble, self-effacing peasant who considered it her greatest privilege to be God's little girl, to do the lowliest tasks for Him, and to rest confident in His all-embracing love. Here was no worry, no struggle to live, but just peace and holiness that so radiated from her sparkling eyes and imparted a delicate touch of beauty about her pale features. He blessed her, knowing that from her, too, a blessing flowed into him and into the house that sheltered her. Slowly he turned around and left the room. Mother Mazzarello was still smiling, fingering her Rosary.