e were to divide
our lives into periods: our childhood, our schooldays, and our life
in the army. We were to search each period carefully, and note down
on a single sheet of writing-paper the sins that we must confess.
But, wanting to do it thoroughly, I had already reached my ninth
sheet. And I was still only at the beginning of my schooldays. I had
acknowledged this to Monty, who smiled kindly, and said: "It is a
_Via Dolorosa_, isn't it? But carry on. For the joy that is set
before you, endure the cross."

"It was easy enough," complained Doe, "to say frankly 'everything'
when he asked us what we had to confess; but, when you've got to go
into details, it's the limit. I wish I were dead. Monty gave me a
long list of questions for self-examination, and I had to go back
and ask him for more. They didn't nearly cover all _I_'d done."

I couldn't help smiling.

"Yes," proceeded Doe, "Monty laughed too, and said: 'Don't get
rattled. You're one of the best, and proving it every moment.' And
that brings me to my other difficulty. Rupert, all my life I've done
things for my own glory; and I did want to make this confession a
perfect thing, free from wrong motives like that. But you've no idea
how self-glorification has eaten into me. I find myself hoping Monty
will say mine is the best life confession he has ever heard. Isn't
it awful?" He sighed and murmured: "I wonder if I shall ever do an
_absolutely perfect_ thing."

Such a character as Doe's must ever love to unrobe itself before a
friend; and he continued:

"No, I know my motives are mixed with wrong. For example, I don't
believe I should do this, if some other chaplain, instead of Monty,
had asked me to do it. And your saying you'd do it had much too much
to do with my consenting. But I _am_ trying to do it properly. And,
after turning my life inside out, I've come to the conclusion that
I'm a bundle of sentiment and self-glorification. The only good
thing that I can see in myself is that where I love I give myself
utterly. It's awful."

So, you see, in these words did Doe admit that the dog-like
devotion, which he had once given to Radley, was transferred to
Monty. In my own less intense way I felt the same thing. Radley had
become remote, and ceased to be a force in our lives; Monty reigned
in his stead. We were boys; and what's the use of pretending? A
boy's affection is not eternal.

Of Doe's confession I can relate no more. It withdraws itself into a
p