“I only know that I must lead a moral life, and that religion will help me to do so.  I try to speak the truth, but the truth shifts and veers, and in trying to tell the whole truth perhaps I leave an impression that I believe less than I do.  You must make allowance for my ignorance and incapacity.  I cannot find words as you do to express myself.  Do not refuse me absolution, for without it I shall not have strength to persevere....  I fear what may become of me.  If you knew the effort it has cost me to come to you.  I have not slept for many nights for thinking of my sins.”

“There is one promise you must make me before I give you absolution; you must not seek either of these men again who have been to you a cause of sin.”

The pain from her knees was expressed in her voice, and it was almost with a cry that she answered—­

“But I have promised to sing his opera.”

“I thought, my dear child, that you told me you intended to give up the stage.  I feel bound to tell you that I do not see how you are to remain on the stage if you wish to lead a new life”

“I have been kneeling a long while,” and a cry escaped her, so acute was the pain.  She struggled to her feet and stood leaning against the table, waiting for the pain to die out of her limbs.  “The other man is father’s friend.  If I tell him or if I write to him that he may not come to the house, father will suspect.  Then I have promised to sing his opera.  Oh, Monsignor—­”

“These difficulties,” said Monsignor, as he rose from his chair, “appear to you very serious.  You are overcome by their importance because you have not adequately realised the awfulness of your state in the sight of God.  If you were to die now, your soul would be lost.  Once you have grasped this central fact in its full significance, the rest will seem easy.  I will lend you a book which I think will help you.”

“But, Monsignor, are you going to refuse me your absolution?”

“My dear child, you are in doubt regarding the essential doctrine of the resurrection, and you are unable to promise me not to see one of the men who have been to you a cause of sin.”

Her clear, nervous vision met the dry, narrow vision that was the priest, and there was a pause in the conflict of their wills.  He saw that his penitent was moved to the depth of her being, and had lost control of herself.  He feared to send her away without absolution, yet he felt that she must be forced into submission—­she must accept the entire doctrine of the Church.  He could not understand, and therefore could not sympathise with her hesitation on points of doctrine.  If the penitent accepted the Church as the true Church, conscience was laid aside for doctrine.  The value of the Church was that it relieved the individual of the responsibility of life.  So it was by an effort of will that he retained his patience.  He was determined to reduce her to his mind, but he was instinctively aware