work. He knoweth every burden that we bear, and how hard it presseth,
and how sore weary are His child's shoulders. Did He bear no burdens
Himself in the carpenter's workshop at Nazareth; yea, and up the steep
of Calvary? Let Him have thy best work. He hath given thee His best."

Never before, nor in so short a time, had so many new ideas been
suggested to the mind of Agnes Stone. The very notion of Christ's
sympathy with men was something strange to her. She had been taught to
regard Mary as the tender human sympathiser, and to look upon Christ in
one of two lights--either as the helpless Infant in the arms of the
mother, or as the stern Judge who required to be softened by Mary's
merciful intercession. But the one gush of confidence over, she was
doubly shy. She shrank from clothing her vague thoughts with precise
and distinct language.

"I would I might alway confess unto you, Father," she said gratefully,
rising from her hard seat "I would have thee confess unto a better than
I, my daughter," was the priest's answer. "There is no confessor like
to the great Confessor of God. Christ shall make never a blunder; and
He beareth no tales. Thine innermost heart's secrets be as safe with
Him as with thyself."

"But must I not confess to a priest?" demanded Agnes in a surprised
tone.

"There is one Priest, my daughter," said the Friar. "And `because He
continueth ever, unchangeable hath He the priesthood.' There can be
none other."

This was another new idea to Agnes--if possible, more strange than the
former. She ventured a faint protest which showed the nature of her
thoughts.

"But He, that is the Judge at the doomsday! how could such as I e'er
confess to Him?"

A smile--which was sad, not mirthful--parted the grave lips of the Black
Friar.

"Child!" he answered, "there is no man so lowly, there is no man so
loving, as the Man Christ Jesus."

Agnes was so deep in thought that she did not hear his retreating steps.
She looked up with a further remark on her lips, and found that he was
gone.

It was nearly dark now, and there was only just time to reach the City
gate before the hour when it would be closed. Agnes hurried on quickly,
passed out of Newgate, and, afraid of being benighted, almost ran up
Giltspur Street to the south end of Cow Lane. A hasty rap on Mistress
Flint's door brought little Will to open it.

"Good lack!" said the child. "Mother, here is Mistress Agnes Stone."

"Wha