od--on that question her instinct was again explicit--and
when he returned again in his irritation at her insubordination to his
ideas, and questioned her regarding her belief as to a future life, her
answer was so doubtful that after a moment's hesitation he said--

"If you are not convinced on so cardinal a point of dogma, it is
impossible for me to give you absolution."

"Do not deny me your absolution. I cannot face my life without some sign
of forgiveness. I believe--I think I believe. You probe too deeply.
Sometimes it seems to me that there must be a future life, sometimes it
seems to me--that it would be too terrible if we were to live again."

"It would be too terrible indeed, my dear child, if we were to live
again unassoiled, unpurified, in all our miserable imperfections. But
these have been removed by the priest's absolution, by the sinner's
repentance in this world and by purgatory in the next. Those who have
the happiness to live in the sight of God are without stain."

"I only know that I must lead a moral life, and that religion will help
me to do so. I try to speak the truth, but the truth shifts and veers,
and in trying to tell the whole truth perhaps I leave an impression that
I believe less than I do. You must make allowance for my ignorance and
incapacity. I cannot find words as you do to express myself. Do not
refuse me absolution, for without it I shall not have strength to
persevere.... I fear what may become of me. If you knew the effort it
has cost me to come to you. I have not slept for many nights for
thinking of my sins."

"There is one promise you must make me before I give you absolution; you
must not seek either of these men again who have been to you a cause of
sin."

The pain from her knees was expressed in her voice, and it was almost
with a cry that she answered--

"But I have promised to sing his opera."

"I thought, my dear child, that you told me you intended to give up the
stage. I feel bound to tell you that I do not see how you are to remain
on the stage if you wish to lead a new life"

"I have been kneeling a long while," and a cry escaped her, so acute was
the pain. She struggled to her feet and stood leaning against the table,
waiting for the pain to die out of her limbs. "The other man is father's
friend. If I tell him or if I write to him that he may not come to the
house, father will suspect. Then I have promised to sing his opera. Oh,
Monsignor--"

"These dif