The voice pronounced the formula of the benediction.  Dagobert’s wife answered “amen,” as was proper, said her confider to “It is my fault,” gave an account of the manner in which she had performed her last penance, and then proceeded to the enumeration of the new sins, committed since she had received absolution.

For this excellent woman, a glorious martyr of industry and maternal love, always fancied herself sinning:  her conscience was incessantly tormented by the fear that she had committed some incomprehensible offence.  This mild and courageous creature, who, after a whole life of devotion, ought to have passed what time remained to her in calm serenity of soul, looked upon herself as a great sinner, and lived in continual anxiety, doubting much her ultimate salvation.

“Father,” said Frances, in a trembling voice, “I accuse myself of omitting my evening prayer the day before yesterday.  My husband, from whom I had been separated for many years, returned home.  The joy and the agitation caused by his arrival, made me commit this great sin.”

“What next?” said the voice, in a severe tone, which redoubled the poor woman’s uneasiness.

“Father, I accuse myself of falling into the same sin yesterday evening.  I was in a state of mortal anxiety, for my son did not come home as usual, and I waited for him minute after minute, till the hour had passed over.”

“What next?” said the voice.

“Father, I accuse myself of having told a falsehood all this week to my son, by letting him think that on account of his reproaching me for neglecting my health, I had taken a little wine for my dinner—­whereas I had left it for him, who has more need of it, because he works so much.”

“Go on!” said the voice.

“Father, I accuse myself of a momentary want of resignation this morning, when I learned that my poor son was arrested; instead of submitting with respect and gratitude to this new trial which the Lord hath sent me—­alas!  I rebelled against it in my grief—­and of this I accuse myself.”

“A bad week,” said the priest, in a tone of still greater severity, “a bad week—­for you have always put the creature before the Creator.  But proceed!”

“Alas, father!” resumed Frances, much dejected, “I know that I am a great sinner; and I fear that I am on the road to sins of a still graver kind.”

“Speak!”

“My husband brought with him from Siberia two young orphans, daughters of Marshal Simon.  Yesterday morning, I asked them to say their prayers, and I learned from them, with as much fright as sorrow, that they know none of the mysteries of our holy faith, though they are fifteen years old.  They have never received the sacrament, nor are they even baptized, father—­not even baptized!”

“They must be heathens!” cried the voice, in a tone of angry surprise.

“That is what so much grieves me, father; for, as I and my husband are in the room of parents to these young orphans, we should be guilty of the sins which they might commit—­should we not, father?”