“Daughter, your plan is approved.  Such pilgrimages have ever been held meritorious works in the Church, and there is a special blessing upon them.”

“My father,” said Agnes, “it has always been in my heart from my childhood to be the bride of the Lord; but my grandmother, who brought me up, and to whom I owe the obedience of a daughter, utterly forbids me:  she will not hear a word of it.  No longer ago than last Monday she told me I might as well put a knife into her heart as speak of this.”

“And you, daughter, do you put the feelings of any earthly friend before the love of your Lord and Creator who laid down His life for you?  Hear what He saith:—­’He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me.’”

“But my poor old grandmother has no one but me in the world, and she has never slept a night without me; she is getting old, and she has worked for me all her good days;—­it would be very hard for her to lose me.”

“Ah, false, deceitful heart!  Has, then, thy Lord not labored for thee?  Has He not borne thee through all the years of thy life?  And wilt thou put the love of any mortal before His?”

“Yes,” replied Agnes, with a sort of hardy sweetness,—­“but my Lord does not need me as grandmother does; He is in glory, and will never be old or feeble; I cannot work for Him and tend Him as I shall her.  I cannot see my way clear at present; but when she is gone, or if the saints move her to consent, I shall then belong to God alone.”

“Daughter, there is some truth in your words; and if your Lord accepts you, He will dispose her heart.  Will she go with you on this pilgrimage?”

“I have prayed that she might, father,—­that her soul may be quickened; for I fear me, dear old grandmamma has found her love for me a snare,—­she has thought too much of my interests and too little of her own soul, poor grandmamma!”

“Well, child, I shall enjoin this pilgrimage on her as a penance.”

“I have grievously offended her lately,” said Agnes, “in rejecting an offer of marriage with a man on whom she had set her heart, and therefore she does not listen to me as she is wont to do.”

“You have done right in refusing, my daughter.  I will speak to her of this, and show her how great is the sin of opposing a holy vocation in a soul whom the Lord calls to Himself, and enjoin her to make reparation by uniting with you in this holy work.”

Agnes departed from the confessional without even looking upon the face of her director, who sat within listening to the rustle of her dress as she rose,—­listening to the soft fall of her departing footsteps, and praying that grace might be given him not to look after her:  and he did not, though he felt as if his life were going with her.

Agnes tripped round the aisle to a little side-chapel where a light was always kept burning by her before a picture of Saint Agnes, and, kneeling there, waited till her grandmother should be through with her confession.