right with God? That
might come with time. But what he now most desired was a human being.
No one else would come. No one will have anything to do with a ruined
man. Each man thanks God that he is not such a one. But the priest
must come.

In about half an hour the condemned man started, every sound at the
door alarmed him--some one came. A monk quietly entered the cell. He
slipped along in sandals. The dull light from the window showed an old
man with a long, grey beard and cheerful-looking eyes. His gown of
rough cloth was tied round the waist with a white cord, from which a
rosary hung. He greeted the prisoner, reaching for his hand: "May I
say good evening? I should like to, if I may."

"I sent for you, Father. I don't know if you are aware how things are
with me," said Konrad.

"Yes, I know, I know. But the Lord is nearer to you to-day than He was
yesterday," replied the monk.

"I have many things to say," said Konrad, hesitatingly. "But I don't
want to confess. I want a man to talk to."

"You want to ease your heart, my poor friend," said the monk.

"You come to me because it's your duty," returned Konrad. "It's not
pleasant. You have to comfort us, and don't know how to do it.
There's nothing left for me."

"Don't speak like that," said the Father. "If I understand rightly,
you have not summoned me as a confessor. Only as a man, isn't that it?
And I come willingly as such. I can't convert you. You must convert
yourself. Imagine me to be a brother whom you haven't seen for a long
time. And now he comes and finds you here, and wellnigh weeping asks
you how such a thing could have happened."

The prisoner sat down on the bench, folded his hands, and bent his head
and murmured; "I had a brother. If he had lived I should not be here.
He was older than I."

"Have you no other relatives?" asked the monk.

"My parents died before I was twelve years old. Quickly, one after the
other. My father could not survive my mother. My mother--a poor, good
woman; always cheerful, pious. In the village just outside. No one
could have had a happier childhood. Ah! forgive me----" His words
seemed to stick in his throat.

"Compose yourself!" counselled the priest. "Keep your childhood in
your memory! It is a light in such days."

"It is over," said Konrad, controlling his sobs. "Father, that memory
does not comfort me; it accuses me more heavily. How can such
misfortune come from such b