Even this did not hurt me much, but when I thought of the rosy-faced child in the carriage, and then of my own darling at Mrs. Oliver’s as I had seen her last, so thin and pale, and with her little bib stained by her curdled milk, a feeling I had never had before pierced to my very soul.

I asked myself if this was what God looked down upon and permitted—­that because I had obeyed what I still believed to be the purest impulse of my nature, love, my child must be made to suffer.

Then something hard began to form in my heart.  I told myself that what I had been taught to believe about God was falsehood and deception.

All this time I was trying to hush down my mind by saying my prayer, which called on the gracious Virgin Mary to intercede for me with my Redeemer, and the holy Saints of God to assist me.

“Assist me by thy grace, that I may be able to declare my sins to the priest, thy Vicar.”

It was of no use.  Every moment my heart was hardening, and what I had intended to confess about my wicked thoughts of the night before was vanishing away.  At last I rose to my feet and, lifting my head, looked boldly up at the altar.

Just at that moment the young peeress, having finished her confession, went off with a light step and a cheerful face.  Her kneeling-place at the confessional box was now vacant, yet I did not attempt to take it, and some minutes passed in which I stood biting my lips to prevent a cry.  Then the priest parted his curtains and beckoned to me, and I moved across and stood stubbornly by the perforated brass grating.

“Father,” I said, as firmly as I could, for my throat was fluttering, “I came here to make my confession, but something has come over me since I entered this church, and now I cannot.”

“What has come over you, my child?” asked the priest.

“I feel that what is said about God in a place like this, that He is a kind and beneficent Father, who is just and merciful and pities the sufferings of His children, is untrue.  It is all wrong and false. God does not care.”

The priest did not answer me immediately, but after a moment of silence he said in a quivering voice: 

“My child, I feel just like that myself sometimes.  It is the devil tempting you.  He is standing by your side and whispering in your ear, at this moment.”

I shuddered, and the priest added: 

“I see how it is, my daughter.  You are suffering, and those you love are suffering too.  But must you surrender your faith on that account?  Look round at the pictures on these walls [the Stations of the Cross].  Think of the Great Sufferer, the Great Martyr, who in the hour of His death, at the malicious power of the world, cried, ’Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani:  My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?’”

I had dropped to my knees by now, my head was down, and my hands were clasped together.