the cheery fire.

Father Francis felt cozy at the sight; and at once accepted Kate's
invitation to take some nourishment before entering on the labor of
listening to the catalogue of her crimes. "I fasted yesterday," he
muttered; and the zeal with which he attacked the viands rendered the
statement highly credible.

He invited Kate to join him, but she declined.

He returned more than once to the succulent meats, and washed all down
with a pint of the fine old Burgundy, perfumed and purple. Meantime she
of the laity sat looking into the fire with heavenly-minded eyes.

At last, with a gentle sigh of content, the ghostly father installed
himself in an arm-chair by the fire, and invited his penitent to begin.

She took a footstool and brought it to his side, so that, in confessing
her blacker vices, she might be able to whisper them in his very ear.
She kneeled on her little footstool, put her hands across her breast,
and in this lowly attitude murmured softly after this fashion, with a
contrite voice:--

"I have to accuse myself of many vices. Alas! in one short fortnight I
have accumulated the wickedness of a life. I have committed the seven
deadly sins. I have been guilty of Pride, Wrath, Envy, Disobedience,
Immodesty, Vanity, Concupiscence, Fibs,"----

"Gently, daughter," said the priest, quietly; "these terms are too
general: give me instances. Let us begin with Wrath: ah! we are all
prone to that."

The fair penitent sighed, and said,--

"Especially me. Example: I was angry beyond reason with my maid, Ruth.
(She does comb my hair so uncouthly!) So, then, the other night, when I
was in trouble, and most needed soothing by being combed womanly, she
gets thinking of Harry, that helps in the stable, and she tears away at
my hair. I started up and screamed out, 'Oh, you clumsy thing! go
curry-comb my horse, and send that oaf your head is running on to handle
my hair.' And I told her my grandam would have whipped her well for it,
but nowadays mistresses were the only sufferers: we had lost the use of
our hands, we are grown so squeamish. And I stamped like a fury, and
said, 'Get you gone out of the room!' and 'I hated the sight of her!'
And the poor girl went from me, crying, without a word, being a better
Christian than her mistress. _Mea culpa! mea culpa!_"

"Did you slap her?"

"Nay, Father, not so bad as that."

"Are you quite sure you did not slap her?" asked Francis, quietly.

"Nay. But I had a mind