"Just so, my child. You needed help to see the true inwardness of your
spirit. You mistook natural indignation and the recoil of pain for the
sin of actual desire. You wished to escape--to be free--and so you
thought that you wished your husband's death. But you do not wish it."

"I ... I think ... I am afraid I do, Father."

Her voice was touchingly humble, like a child's voice confessing what it
deems a terrible crime with courageous obstinacy.

"No, my child. Think. Could you now--here--by sending forth a sharp
thought like a dagger--kill your husband--would you send forth that
thought?"

Her brow knitted painfully. She went white as death. Then the blood
surged over her face.

"No, Father," she whispered.

"You see, my child? What you craved when you sought me was for another
voice, the voice of a human being like yourself, to echo the small,
still voice down in the centre of your own spirit. The voice that says
we must have the courage to live life as we have made it for
ourselves--honestly, righteously, unflinchingly. You must not be too
severe with yourself, my child. To deny the hidden good in ourselves is
the subtlest form of spiritual pride. It gives death, not life. There
was a great Pagan who once uttered a profoundly Christian truth.
Wolfgang von Goethe said: 'Life teaches us to be less hard with others
and--ourselves.' Do you see what I mean, my child?"

"Yes," said Sophy, in that smothered voice.

"Then what you must do is very simple. First, you must forgive your
husband--then you must forgive yourself. After what you have told me, I
can see no salvation for him from this sad vice but in your affection
and your strong will to help him. Consult with this wise doctor--follow
his instructions as best you may. Take your life, your heart, in both
hands and lift them up unto the Lord."

"You don't know, Father ... you can't know...." She shuddered violently.
Her grey eyes were fixed on his in desperate appeal.

"Yes, my child-- I do know," he said tenderly. "I led the life of an
ordinary man before I became a priest. I know well what you are
suffering--what lies before you--for you have courage--you will
not--desert." He said it firmly, but his kind eyes held her, full of the
comprehending compassion that does not wound.

Then Sophy gave a cry--the cry of a child who says: "I wish I were
dead!" She put up her hands to her face and sobbed out:

"Oh, I wish I could be a nun ... a nun!"

Very te