looked thoughtful, surprised, puzzled. "You take me unawares," said
he. "I have not had such a case as yours before: ordinarily we know our
routine, and are prepared; but this makes a great break in the common
course of confession. I am hardly furnished with counsel fitting the
circumstances."

Of course, I had not expected he would be; but the mere relief of
communication in an ear which was human and sentient, yet
consecrated--the mere pouring out of some portion of long accumulating,
long pent-up pain into a vessel whence it could not be again
diffused--had done me good. I was already solaced.

"Must I go, father?" I asked of him as he sat silent.

"My daughter," he said kindly--and I am sure he was a kind man: he had
a compassionate eye--"for the present you had better go: but I assure
you your words have struck me. Confession, like other things, is apt to
become formal and trivial with habit. You have come and poured your
heart out; a thing seldom done. I would fain think your case over, and
take it with me to my oratory. Were you of our faith I should know what
to say--a mind so tossed can find repose but in the bosom of retreat,
and the punctual practice of piety. The world, it is well known, has no
satisfaction for that class of natures. Holy men have bidden penitents
like you to hasten their path upward by penance, self-denial, and
difficult good works. Tears are given them here for meat and
drink--bread of affliction and waters of affliction--their recompence
comes hereafter. It is my own conviction that these impressions under
which you are smarting are messengers from God to bring you back to the
true Church. You were made for our faith: depend upon it our faith
alone could heal and help you--Protestantism is altogether too dry,
cold, prosaic for you. The further I look into this matter, the more
plainly I see it is entirely out of the common order of things. On no
account would I lose sight of you. Go, my daughter, for the present;
but return to me again."

I rose and thanked him. I was withdrawing when he signed me to return.

"You must not come to this church," said he: "I see you are ill, and
this church is too cold; you must come to my house: I live----" (and he
gave me his address). "Be there to-morrow morning at ten."

In reply to this appointment, I only bowed; and pulling down my veil,
and gathering round me my cloak, I glided away.

Did I, do you suppose, reader, contemplate venturing again