chief signs of evil in us that when we dwell too much
upon ourselves and upon our temptations, we ourselves seem good in our
own eyes, and our temptations not unpleasant, because the very resisting
of them seems to make us appear better than we are."

But the tears still flowed from Corona's eyes in the dark corner of the
church, and she could not be comforted.

"Padre mio," she repeated, "I am very unhappy. I have not a friend in the
world to whom I can speak. I have never seen my life before as I see it
now. God forgive me, I have never loved my husband. I never knew what it
meant to love. I was a mere child, a very innocent child, when I was
married to him. I would have sought your advice, but they told me you
were away, and I thought I was doing right in obeying my father."

Padre Filippo sighed. He had long known and understood why Corona had not
been allowed to come to him at the most important moment of her life.

"My husband is very kind to me," she continued in broken tones. "He loves
me in his way, but I do not love him. That of itself is a great sin. It
seems to me as though I saw but one half of life, and saw it from the
window of a prison; and yet I am not imprisoned. I would that I were, for
I should never have seen another man. I should never have heard his
voice, nor seen his face, nor--nor loved him, as I do love him," she
sobbed.

"Hush, my daughter," said the old monk, very gently. "You told me you had
never spoken of love; that you were interested in him, indeed, but that
you did not know--"

"I know--I know now," cried Corona, losing all control as the passionate
tears flowed down. "I could not say it--it seemed so dreadful--I love him
with my whole self! I can never get it out--it burns me. O God, I am so
wretched!"

Padre Filippo was silent for a while. It was a terrible case. He could
not remember in all his experience to have known one more sad to
contemplate, though his business was with the sins and the sorrows of the
world. The beautiful woman kneeling outside his confessional was
innocent--as innocent as a child, brave and faithful. She had sacrificed
her whole life for her father, who had been little worthy of such
devotion; she had borne for years the suffering of being tied to an old
man whom she could not help despising, however honestly she tried to
conceal the fact from herself, however effectually she hid it from
others. It was a wonder the disaster had not occurred before: it