than ours. And if he
criticised it, all the pleasure would go out of it.

But Conrad did not have to do without it long. The father brought it
back the next morning. He had begun to read it the evening before, and
had sat up all night to finish it. But he would not give his opinion,
and Conrad did not ask for it. Almost helplessly, they sat at the
rough table, while the monk tried to think how he could express his
thoughts. After a while, he took up the manuscript, laid it down
again, and said that of course, from the ecclesiastical point of view,
there would naturally be some objections.

"The details of the history are not altogether correct. I know,
Ferleitner, that you asked me for a copy of the New Testament. If I
had known that you had gone so far, I would willingly have given you
one. But perhaps it is better so. Though I must tell you, Conrad
Ferleitner, that nothing has given me so much pleasure for a long while
as these meditations and--I may also say--fancies of yours. As for the
faults, let those who take a pleasure in finding them, look for them.
The living faith is the one important thing, the living faith and the
living Jesus, and that is here! My son," he added, laying his hand on
the prisoner's head, "I feel your piety of soul is so profound, that I
will administer the sacrament to you. Yes, Conrad, you are saved.
Only, pray fervently."

Conrad covered his face with his hands, and wept quietly. The priest's
words made him so happy.

"I even think," continued the father, after a pause, "that others who
are seeking for the simple word of God, and cannot find it, might read
your book. There must be many such people in hospitals, poor-houses,
and prisons, and especially those who are in your situation. Would you
have any objection?"

"My God, why should I?" replied Conrad. "If this work of mine could be
the help to other poor wretches that it has been to me! But I do not
know--it was not meant for that. I wrote it only for myself."

"Naturally, one or two things must be altered," said the father. "We
would go through it again together."

"But, holy father," asked the prisoner wistfully, "that is--if you
think there will be time?"

"Above all, we must try and find a suitable title. Have you not
thought that your child must have a name?"

"I wrote the letters I.N.R.I. at the top."

"It is rather out of the common. People won't know what to make of it.
We must at least have