e inmost core of her
heart.

XIV

The room into which Father Raphael led her was very bare. There was a
clock on the deal mantelpiece, some plain rush-seated deal chairs
stained brown, a deal table covered with a cheap cloth stamped in red
and black. On a little shrine in one corner stood a plaster statue of
the Virgin as the Mater Misericordiae, with her hands extended in
compassion. A nosegay of white geraniums in a thick glass was placed
before it.

The priest sat down on one side of the table, and motioned Sophy to a
chair opposite. He waited, looking away from her out of the small window
that framed a hideous "back yard," until she had somewhat mastered
herself. Then he said in his tranquil, tender voice:

"Do not be afraid to speak, my daughter. This place is sacred to The
Mother who suffered most. Where there has been most suffering, there is
most understanding."

Sophy lifted her eyes to his.

"I ought to tell you, Father, that I am not a Roman Catholic," she said,
under her breath. The grave cordiality of his look did not abate.

"All who are in trouble are welcome here," he said gently. But she
noticed that after that he said "My child," when speaking to her,
instead of "My daughter."

Then, little by little, she told him everything. When she had ended, he
sat for some moments, musing. He had a plain, rugged face, but the eyes,
clear and brown, held an expression of the most exquisite comprehension
and love--that love which is so wholly of the spirit yet so warm towards
the sorrows and needs of humanity that, feeling its power, one can
realise how, after looking into eyes like these yet far more wonderful,
the great golden Harlot of Magdala cast away her lovers and her jewels,
and spread her beautiful hair as a serving-cloth about the sacred feet
her tears had washed.

"It is true, my child," said Father Raphael at last, and he smiled
tenderly upon her, "that the human heart is deceitful above all things
and desperately wicked--and sometimes it deceives even in regard to its
own wickedness. Your heart has deceived you, my child."

"How?" asked Sophy, in a low voice. An inward tremor had seized her. Her
voice shook.

"It has deceived you into thinking that you wish your husband's death.
You do not wish that. Look deeper into this deceitful heart of yours,
and you will see that you do not. Why did you go to that doctor? Why
have you come here to me?"

"I ... I needed ... help, Father."