ived at a religious house
in the city where now Constantia resided; and desiring that secrecy and
concealment of the fathers of the convent, which is very usual upon any
extraordinary occasion, he made himself one of the order, with a private
vow never to inquire after Constantia; whom he looked upon as given away
to his rival upon the day on which, according to common fame, their
marriage was to have been solemnised. Having in his youth made a good
progress in learning, that he might dedicate himself more entirely to
religion, he entered into holy orders, and in a few years became renowned
for his sanctity of life, and those pious sentiments which he inspired
into all who conversed with him. It was this holy man to whom Constantia
had determined to apply herself in confession, though neither she nor any
other, besides the prior of the convent, knew anything of his name or
family. The gay, the amiable Theodosius had now taken upon him the name
of Father Francis, and was so far concealed in a long beard, a shaven
head, and a religious habit, that it was impossible to discover the man
of the world in the venerable conventual.

As he was one morning shut up in his confessional, Constantia kneeling by
him opened the state of her soul to him; and after having given him the
history of a life full of innocence, she burst out into tears, and
entered upon that part of her story in which he himself had so great a
share. "My behaviour," says she, "has, I fear, been the death of a man
who had no other fault but that of loving me too much. Heaven only knows
how dear he was to me whilst he lived, and how bitter the remembrance of
him has been to me since his death." She here paused, and lifted up her
eyes that streamed with tears towards the father, who was so moved with
the sense of her sorrows that he could only command his voice, which was
broken with sighs and sobbings, so far as to bid her proceed. She
followed his directions, and in a flood of tears poured out her heart
before him. The father could not forbear weeping aloud, insomuch that,
in the agonies of his grief, the seat shook under him. Constantia, who
thought the good man was thus moved by his compassion towards her, and by
the horror of her guilt, proceeded with the utmost contrition to acquaint
him with that vow of virginity in which she was going to engage herself,
as the proper atonement for her sins, and the only sacrifice she could
make to the memory of Th