a judgment upon the wife who had
proved faithless to her husband, the man who had betrayed his friend?
Both took the fever at the same time and died within a week of each
other. They were buried side by side in a small cemetery near to the
Eternal City. Some years after I went to Rome. I had lived down my
life's tragedy and could gaze upon their graves with calmness. As I did
so, and realised the certainty of retribution, I prayed that I might
judge in mercy. They had blighted my life, but looking on those nameless
graves I felt for the first time that I could forgive. Yes, the graves
were nameless, for no stone had been placed over them. This I did. By
way of inscription I merely recorded the initials on each: and the text
'Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.'

"That very same day I was wandering about the English cemetery in Rome,
and came upon the text 'Here lies one whose name was writ in water;'
doubtless the expression of one whose life had been a failure or
disappointment. 'My friend,' I thought, 'you are not to be pitied half
so much as those whose names are writ in Sin.'

"It was about this time that I determined to enter the Church. Since
that terrible blow I had grown to hate the world, withdrew more and more
from society. I had no near ties on earth. Again and again I thanked
heaven that no child had been born to me. As soon as I had made the
resolution I put it in force, and cannot say that I ever regretted it.
Gradually all morbidness left me. I lead a busy life; I delight in
society; people consider me a very jovial old priest. But I never lift a
finger to promote a marriage; I never solemnise one without a sigh and a
wonder as to what will be the end of it. And let me tell you a secret. I
never hear in the confessional that love is on the wane between husband
and wife, without pouring out upon them the sternest vials of my wrath,
threatening them with all the terrors of purgatory if so much as a
breath of inconstancy of mind or thought is whispered. Oh, if I were not
pledged to silence, what Romances of the Confessional could I not tell
you!"

We had listened without interruption. Sitting side by side it was easy
to talk without being overheard. The train clattered and beat and
throbbed on its way. The happy pair were at the other end of the
carriage. H. C., who sat opposite to us, instead of giving his
undivided attention to the scenery, was composing a sonnet to the