in the monotonous, gentle voice which he had
acquired by years of duty in the confessional, continued whispering in
her ear. One evening in the past he had warned her; solitude, he had
said, would be harmful to her welfare. No one could with impunity live
outside the pale of life. She had imprisoned herself too closely, and
the door had opened to perilous thoughts.

"I am very old now, my daughter," he murmured, "and I have frequently
seen women come to us weeping and praying, with a craving to find
faith and religion. Thus it is that I cannot be deceiving myself
to-day. These women, who seem to seek God in so zealous a manner, are
but souls rendered miserable by passion. It is a man whom they worship
in our churches."

She was not listening; a strife was raging in her bosom, amidst her
efforts to read her innermost thoughts aright. And at last confession
came from her in a broken whisper:

"Oh! yes, I love, and that is all! Beyond that I know nothing
--nothing!"

He now forbore to interrupt her; she spoke in short feverish
sentences, taking a mournful pleasure in thus confessing her love, in
sharing with that venerable priest the secret which had so long
burdened her.

"I swear I cannot read my thoughts. This has come to me without my
knowing its presence. Perhaps it came in a moment. Only in time did I
realize its sweetness. Besides, why should I deem myself stronger than
I am? I have made no effort to flee from it; I was only too happy, and
to-day I have yet less power of resistance. My daughter was ill; I
almost lost her. Well! my love has been as intense as my sorrow; it
came back with sovereign power after those days of terror--and it
possesses me, I feel transported--"

She shivered and drew a breath.

"In short, my strength fails me. You were right, my friend, in
thinking it would be a relief to confide in you. But, I beseech you,
tell me what is happening in the depths of my heart. My life was once
so peaceful; I was so happy. A thunderbolt has fallen on me. Why on
me? Why not on another? I had done nothing to bring it on; I imagined
myself well protected. Ah, if you only knew--I know myself no longer!
Help me, save me!"

Then as she became silent, the priest, with the wonted freedom of the
confessor, mechanically asked the question:

"The name? tell me his name?"

She was hesitating, when a peculiar noise prompted her to turn her
head. It came from the doll which, in Monsieur Rambaud's hands, was