and all those who have washed their
robes in the blood of the Lamb.

At the appointed day, I was in my confessional, listening to the confession
of a young man, when, I saw Miss Mary entering the vestry, and coming
directly to my confessional-box, where she knelt by me. Though she had,
still more than at the first time, disguised herself behind a long, thick,
black veil, I could not be mistaken; she was the very same amiable young
lady in whose father's house I used to pass such pleasant and happy hours.
I had so often heard, with breathless attention, her melodious voice when
she was giving us, accompanied by her piano, some of our beautiful Church
hymns. Who could see her without almost worshipping her? The dignity of her
steps, and her whole mien, when she advanced towards my confessional,
entirely betrayed her and destroyed her incognito.

Oh! I would have given every drop of my blood, in that solemn hour, that I
might have been free to deal with her just as she had so eloquently
requested me to do--to let her weep and cry at the feet of Jesus to her
heart's content! Oh! if I had been free to take her by the hand, and
silently show her her dying Saviour, that she might have bathed His feet
with her tears, and spread the oil of her love on His head, without my
saying anything else but "Go in peace: thy sins are forgiven!"

But there, in that confessional-box, I was not the servant of Christ, to
follow His divine, saving words, and obey the dictates of my honest
conscience. I was the slave of the Pope! I had to stifle the cry of my
conscience, to ignore the inspirations of my God! There, my conscience had
no right to speak; my intelligence was a dead thing! The theologians of the
Pope, alone, had a right to be heard and obeyed! I was not there to save,
but to destroy; for, under the pretext of purifying, the real mission of
the confessor, often in spite of himself, is to scandalize and damn the
souls.

As soon as the young man, who was making his confession at my left hand,
had finished, I, without noise, turned myself towards her, and said,
through the little aperture, "Are you ready to begin your confession?"

But she did not answer me. All that I could hear was, "Oh, my Jesus, have
mercy upon me! Dear Saviour, here I am with all my sins; do not reject me!
I come to wash my soul in Thy blood; wilt Thou rebuke me?"

During several minutes, she raised her hands and her eyes to heaven, and
wept and prayed. It was