“Stand up, my daughter,” said the mild voice of the confessor; “what we have further to say must be spoken face to face.”

Hilda did his bidding, and stood before him with a downcast visage, which flushed and grew pale again.  But it had the wonderful beauty which we may often observe in those who have recently gone through a great struggle, and won the peace that lies just on the other side.  We see it in a new mother’s face; we see it in the faces of the dead; and in Hilda’s countenance—­which had always a rare natural charm for her friends—­this glory of peace made her as lovely as an angel.

On her part, Hilda beheld a venerable figure with hair as white as snow, and a face strikingly characterized by benevolence.  It bore marks of thought, however, and penetrative insight; although the keen glances of the eyes were now somewhat bedimmed with tears, which the aged shed, or almost shed, on lighter stress of emotion than would elicit them from younger men.

“It has not escaped my observation, daughter,” said the priest, “that this is your first acquaintance with the confessional.  How is this?”

“Father,” replied Hilda, raising her eyes, and again letting them fall, “I am of New Eng land birth, and was bred as what you call a heretic.”

“From New England!” exclaimed the priest.  “It was my own birthplace, likewise; nor have fifty years of absence made me cease to love it.  But a heretic!  And are you reconciled to the Church?”

“Never, father,” said Hilda.

“And, that being the case,” demanded the old man, “on what ground, my daughter, have you sought to avail yourself of these blessed privileges, confined exclusively to members of the one true Church, of confession and absolution?”

“Absolution, father?” exclaimed Hilda, shrinking back.  “O no, no!  I never dreamed of that!  Only our Heavenly Father can forgive my sins; and it is only by sincere repentance of whatever wrong I may have done, and by my own best efforts towards a higher life, that I can hope for his forgiveness!  God forbid that I should ask absolution from mortal man!”

“Then wherefore,” rejoined the priest, with somewhat less mildness in his tone,—­“wherefore, I ask again, have you taken possession, as I may term it, of this holy ordinance; being a heretic, and neither seeking to share, nor having faith in, the unspeakable advantages which the Church offers to its penitents?”

“Father,” answered Hilda, trying to tell the old man the simple truth, “I am a motherless girl, and a stranger here in Italy.  I had only God to take care of me, and be my closest friend; and the terrible, terrible crime, which I have revealed to you, thrust itself between him and me; so that I groped for him in the darkness, as it were, and found him not,—­found nothing but a dreadful solitude, and this crime in the midst of it!  I could not bear it.  It seemed as if I made the awful guilt my own, by keeping it hidden in my heart.  I grew a fearful thing to myself.  I was going mad!”