at I am about to announce to you."

"Speak on, my son," said Father d'Aigrigny, frowning; for he was much
alarmed at the words of the young priest, whose cheeks, until now pale,
were covered with a deep blush.

"Six months before my departure for America," resumed Gabriel, casting
down his eyes, "you informed me, that I was destined to confess
penitents; and to prepare then for that sacred ministry, you gave me a
book."

Gabriel again hesitated. His blushes increased. Father d'Aigrigny could
scarcely restrain a start of impatience and anger.

"You gave me a book," resumed the young priest, with a great effort
to control himself, "a book containing questions to be addressed by
a confessor to youths, and young girls, and married women, when they
present themselves at the tribunal of penance. My God!" added Gabriel,
shuddering at the remembrance. "I shall never forget that awful moment.
It was night. I had retired to my chamber, taking with me this book,
composed, you told me, by one of our fathers, and completed by a holy
bishop.(18) Full of respect, faith, and confidence, I opened those
pages. At first, I did not understand them--afterwards I understood--and
then I was seized with shame and horror--struck with stupor--and had
hardly strength to close, with trembling hand, this abominable volume.
I ran to you, father, to accuse myself of having involuntarily cast my
eyes on those nameless pages, which, by mistake, you had placed in my
hands."

"Remember, also, my dear son," said Father d'Aigrigny, gravely, "that I
calmed your scruples, and told you that a priest, who is bound to
hear everything under the seal of confession, must be able to know and
appreciate everything; and that our Company imposes the task of reading
this Compendium, as a classical work, upon young deacons seminarists,
and priests, who are destined to be confessors."

"I believed you, father. In me the habit of inert obedience was so
powerful, and I was so unaccustomed to independent reflection, that,
notwithstanding my horror (with which I now reproached myself as with
a crime), I took the volume back into my chamber, and read. Oh, father!
what a dreadful revelation of criminal fancies, guilty of guiltiest in
their refinement!"

"You speak of this book in blamable terms," skid Father d'Aigrigny,
severely; "you were the victim of a too lively imagination. It is to it
that you must attribute this fatal impression, and not to an excellent
work, i