“I cannot.  You see you don’t know what she is thinking; and till you know that, I presume you will agree with me that all is an aim in the dark.  How can I prescribe, without some diagnosis?  It is just one of those few cases in which one would like to have the authority of the Catholic priests to urge confession with.  I do not think anything will save her life, as we say, but you have taught some of us to think of the life that belongs to the spirit as the life; and I do believe confession would do everything for that.”

“Yes, if made to God.  But I will grant that communication of one’s sorrows or even sins to a wise brother of mankind may help to a deeper confession to the Father in heaven.  But I have no wish for authority in the matter.  Let us see whether the Spirit of God working in her may not be quite as powerful for a final illumination of her being as the fiat confessio of a priest.  I have no confidence in forcing in the moral or spiritual garden.  A hothouse development must necessarily be a sickly one, rendering the plant unfit for the normal life of the open air.  Wait.  We must not hurry things.  She will perhaps come to me of herself before long.  But I will call and inquire after her.”

We parted; and I went at once to Catherine Weir’s shop.  She received me much as usual, which was hardly to be called receiving at all.  Perhaps there was a doubtful shadow, not of more cordiality, but of less repulsion in it.  Her eyes were full of a stony brilliance, and the flame of the fire that was consuming her glowed upon her cheeks more brightly, I thought, than ever; but that might be fancy, occasioned by what the doctor had said about her.  Her hand trembled, but her demeanour was perfectly calm.

“I am sorry to hear you are complaining, Miss Weir,” I said.

“I suppose Dr Duncan told you so, sir.  But I am quite well.  I did not send for him.  He called of himself, and wanted to persuade me I was ill.”

I understood that she felt injured by his interference.

“You should attend to his advice, though.  He is a prudent man, and not in the least given to alarming people without cause.”

She returned no answer.  So I tried another subject.

“What a fine fellow your brother is!”

“Yes; he grows very much.”

“Has your father found another place for him yet?”

“I don’t know.  My father never tells me about any of his doings.”

“But don’t you go and talk to him, sometimes?”

“No.  He does not care to see me.”

“I am going there now:  will you come with me?”

“Thank you.  I never go where I am not wanted.”

“But it is not right that father and daughter should live as you do.  Suppose he may not have been so kind to you as he ought, you should not cherish resentment against him for it.  That only makes matters worse, you know.”