“It was a grievous trial, my poor child!” observed the confessor.  “Your relief, I trust, will prove to be greater than you yet know!”

“I feel already how immense it is!” said Hilda, looking gratefully in his face.  “Surely, father, it was the hand of Providence that led me hither, and made me feel that this vast temple of Christianity, this great home of religion, must needs contain some cure, some ease, at least, for my unutterable anguish.  And it has proved so.  I have told the hideous secret; told it under the sacred seal of the confessional; and now it will burn my poor heart no more!”

“But, daughter,” answered the venerable priest, not unmoved by what Hilda said, “you forget! you mistake!—­you claim a privilege to which you have not entitled yourself!  The seal of the confessional, do you say?  God forbid that it should ever be broken where it has been fairly impressed; but it applies only to matters that have been confided to its keeping in a certain prescribed method, and by persons, moreover, who have faith in the sanctity of the ordinance.  I hold myself, and any learned casuist of the Church would hold me, as free to disclose all the particulars of what you term your confession, as if they had come to my knowledge in a secular way.”

“This is not right, father!” said Hilda, fixing her eyes on the old man’s.

“Do not you see, child,” he rejoined, with some little heat, “with all your nicety of conscience, cannot you recognize it as my duty to make the story known to the proper authorities; a great crime against public justice being involved, and further evil consequences likely to ensue?”

“No, father, no!” answered Hilda, courageously, her cheeks flushing and her eyes brightening as she spoke.  “Trust a girl’s simple heart sooner than any casuist of your Church, however learned he may be.  Trust your own heart, too!  I came to your confessional, father, as I devoutly believe, by the direct impulse of Heaven, which also brought you hither to-day, in its mercy and love, to relieve me of a torture that I could no longer bear.  I trusted in the pledge which your Church has always held sacred between the priest and the human soul, which, through his medium, is struggling towards its Father above.  What I have confided to you lies sacredly between God and yourself.  Let it rest there, father; for this is right, and if you do otherwise, you will perpetrate a great wrong, both as a priest and a man!  And believe me, no question, no torture, shall ever force my lips to utter what would be necessary, in order to make my confession available towards the punishment of the guilty ones.  Leave Providence to deal with them!”

“My quiet little countrywoman,” said the priest, with half a smile on his kindly old face, “you can pluck up a spirit, I perceive, when you fancy an occasion for one.”

“I have spirit only to do what I think right,” replied Hilda simply.  “In other respects I am timorous.”