When he had eluded the flood of temptation many times in this way he grew troubled and wondered whether the grace which he had refused to lose was not being filched from him little by little.  The clear certitude of his own immunity grew dim and to it succeeded a vague fear that his soul had really fallen unawares.  It was with difficulty that he won back his old consciousness of his state of grace by telling himself that he had prayed to God at every temptation and that the grace which he had prayed for must have been given to him inasmuch as God was obliged to give it.  The very frequency and violence of temptations showed him at last the truth of what he had heard about the trials of the saints.  Frequent and violent temptations were a proof that the citadel of the soul had not fallen and that the devil raged to make it fall.

Often when he had confessed his doubts and scruples—­some momentary inattention at prayer, a movement of trivial anger in his soul, or a subtle wilfulness in speech or act—­he was bidden by his confessor to name some sin of his past life before absolution was given him.  He named it with humility and shame and repented of it once more.  It humiliated and shamed him to think that he would never be freed from it wholly, however holily he might live or whatever virtues or perfections he might attain.  A restless feeling of guilt would always be present with him:  he would confess and repent and be absolved, confess and repent again and be absolved again, fruitlessly.  Perhaps that first hasty confession wrung from him by the fear of hell had not been good?  Perhaps, concerned only for his imminent doom, he had not had sincere sorrow for his sin?  But the surest sign that his confession had been good and that he had had sincere sorrow for his sin was, he knew, the amendment of his life.

—­I have amended my life, have I not? he asked himself.

* * * * *

The director stood in the embrasure of the window, his back to the light, leaning an elbow on the brown crossblind, and, as he spoke and smiled, slowly dangling and looping the cord of the other blind, Stephen stood before him, following for a moment with his eyes the waning of the long summer daylight above the roofs or the slow deft movements of the priestly fingers.  The priest’s face was in total shadow, but the waning daylight from behind him touched the deeply grooved temples and the curves of the skull.

Stephen followed also with his ears the accents and intervals of the priest’s voice as he spoke gravely and cordially of indifferent themes, the vacation which had just ended, the colleges of the order abroad, the transference of masters.  The grave and cordial voice went on easily with its tale and in the pauses Stephen felt bound to set it on again with respectful questions.  He knew that the tale was a prelude and his mind waited for the sequel.  Ever since the message of summons had come for him from the director