The vile priests knew that I loved my father most ardently; in fact, my father and mother were the only two beings on earth that I did love.  My mother I loved most tenderly, but my affection for my father was of a different kind.  I loved him most violently, with all the ardor of my soul.  Mother seemed all the home to me; but father was to me all the world beside.  My father was all the brother I had.  He would frequently come home, and get me to go out into the garden and play with him, just as though he was my brother.  There we would swing, run, jump and exercise in several healthy games, common in our climate.  He never gave me an unkind word or an unkind reproof.  If I did say anything wrong, he would take me to my mother and say, “Clara, here I bring you a prisoner, let her be kept on bread and water till dinner time.”  Even when mother had displeased him about some trifle, so that he had not a smile for her, he always had a smile for his Flora.  Even now, while I write, a chill comes over my frame, while I think of that vile Popish plot.  I said to my father, “You shall not be imprisoned if I can prevent it; at the same time I do not see any great gain, comfort or profit in having your only daughter put in prison for life, without the hope of liberty ever more, to save you from two years imprisonment.”

At these words, the eyes of the confessor flashed like lurid lightnings; his very frame shook, as though he had the fever and ague.  Truth seemed so strange to the priest, that he found it hard of digestion.  Father and mother both wept, but made no reply.  The idea of putting their only child in a dungeon for life, though it might be done in the sacred name of religion, did not seem to give them much comfort “Father,” said I, “I wish to see you at ten o’clock to-morrow morning, without fail—­I wish to see you alone; don’t bring mother or any one else with you.  You shall not go to prison, all will yet be well.”  On account of this reasonable request, to see my father alone, the confessor arose in a terrible rage and left the apartment As quick as the mad priest left us to ourselves, I told my father my plan, or what I would like to do with his permission.  My plan was, for my mother and myself to get into our carriage and drive to the palace of King Ferdinand and make him acquainted with all the truth; for I was aware from what I had heard, that the King had heard only the priest’s side of the story.  My father stood in such fear of the priests that he only consented to my plan with great reluctance, saying that we ought first to make our plan known to the confessor, lest he should be offended.  To this my mother responded, saying, “My daughter, it would be very wrong for us to go to the King, or take any step without the advice of our spiritual guide.”  Here, I felt it to be my duty to reveal to my deceived parents some of the secrets of the confessional, though I might, in their estimation, be guilty of an unpardonable sin by breaking the seal of iniquity.  I revealed