wer.
I have not had the courage to look myself through and through--to form a
really bold and honest resolution. I am pusillanimous, I am a coward. I
shrink from pain, I want to suffer as little as possible, I prefer to
temporise, to hang back, to resort to subterfuges, to wilfully blind
myself instead of courageously facing the risks of a decisive battle.

'The fact of the matter is this--that I am _afraid_ of being alone with
him, of having a serious conversation with him, and so my life is
reduced to a series of petty schemes and manoeuvrings and pretexts for
avoiding his company. Such devices are unworthy of me. Either I must
renounce this love altogether, and he shall hear my sad but firm
resolve, or I shall accept it, in so far as it is pure, and he will
receive my spiritual consent.

'And now I ask myself--What do I really want? Which of the two paths am
I to choose? Must I renounce--shall I accept?

'My God! my God! answer Thou for me--light up the path before me!

'To renounce is like tearing out a piece of my heart with my own hands.
The agony would be supreme, the wrench would exceed the limits of the
endurable. But, by God's grace, such heroism would be crowned by
resignation, would be rewarded by that sweet and holy calm which follows
upon every high moral impulse, every victory of the soul over the dread
of suffering.

'I shall renounce--my daughter shall keep possession of my whole life,
of my whole soul. That is the path of duty, and I will walk in it.

'Sow in tears, oh mourning souls, that ye may reap with songs of
gladness!

'_September 30th._--I feel somewhat calmer in writing these pages. I
regain, at least for the moment, some slight balance of mind. I can look
my misfortune more clearly in the face, and my heart seems relieved as
if after confession.

'Oh, if I could but go to confession!--could implore counsel and help of
my old friend and comforter, Dom Luigi!

'What sustains me most of all in my tribulation, is the thought that in
a short time I shall see him again and be able to pour out all my griefs
and fears to him, show him all my wounds, ask of him a balm for all my
ills, as I used to in the days when his benign and solemn words would
call up tears of tenderness to my eyes, that knew not then the
bitterness of other tears or--more terrible by far--the burning pain of
dry-eyed misery.

'Will he understand me still? Can he fathom the deep anguish of the
woman as he understood t