extraordinary the strength it gave her even to see his stern, grave face; she was thrilled by his certainty on all points, and it no longer seemed difficult to send the letter she had written, or to write a similar letter to Ulick, which he advised her to send by the same post.  She began it the moment she got home, and she wrote in perfect confidence and courage, the words coming easily to her, so easily that there were times when she seemed to hear Monsignor speaking over her shoulder.

“Dear Ulick,—­A very great event has happened in my life since I saw you.  The greatest event that can happen in any life—­Grace has been vouchsafed to me.  Now I understand how sinful my life has been, as much from a human as a religious point of view.  I deserted my dear father, I left him alone to live as best he could.  I was not even faithful to my lover.  From a worldly point of view I owed him everything, yet for the sake of my passion for you I encouraged myself for a while to dwell on his faults, to see nothing in him but the small and the mean.  I strove to degrade him in my eyes so that I might find some excuse for loving you.  You were nice, Ulick, you were kind, you were good to me, and I was enthusiastic about your genius.  One of my greatest troubles now is that I shall not be able to sing your opera.  For a long while this very thing prevented my repentance.  I said to myself, ’It is impossible, I cannot, I have promised, I must do what I said I would do.  He will think me hateful if I do not create the part.’  But these hesitations between what is certainly right and what is certainly wrong existed in me because I did not then perceive how very little the things of this world are, compared with eternal things, and that nothing matters compared with the necessity of saving our souls.  All this is now quite clear to me, and it would therefore be madness for me to remain on the stage, recognising as I do that it is a source of grave temptation to me.  You will try to understand, dear Ulick, you will try to look at things from my point of view.  You will see that it is impossible for me to act otherwise.

“I am living now with my father, and must not see you when you return to London.  I have promised my confessor not to see you.  One of these days, in years to come, when you and I are different beings, we may meet, but we must not see each other at present.  I must beg of you not to write or to try to see me.  My resolve is unalterable, and any attempt on your part to induce me to return to my old life will be useless.  It as already far away and inconceivable to me.  I know that by asking you not to come to Dulwich I am robbing my father of his friend.  I have never brought happiness to anyone, not to father, not to Sir Owen, not to you, not to myself.  If other proof were wanting, would not this fact be enough to convince me that my life has been all wrong?  What it will be in the future I don’t know, I have confidence in the goodness of God and in the wisdom of my spiritual adviser.—­Sincerely yours,