She looked at him shrinkingly, pale as death, as if he had a dagger in his hand ready to strike her. “No, I don’t suppose there is anything that goes home to my heart any more than to other hearts,” she said, after a pause, trying to speak carelessly. “We are all sinners. The Gospel teaches us that in every line! We are none of us altogether worthy--not even my husband, I suppose, although to me he seems a perfect Christian.” “I can believe that he is a Christian, Mrs. Disney, and a man of strong convictions. If he had wronged anybody, I do not think he would rest till he had atoned for that wrong.” “I am sure he would not. He would do his uttermost to atone. And so would I--although I do not pretend to be half so good a Christian as he is. I would do all in my power to atone for any wrong I had done to one I loved.” “As you love your husband, for instance.” “Yes, as I love him. He is first in the world for me. Dear as my child is, Martin must always be first.” “And you would not for the world do him any wrong?” pursued the priest, more and more earnest as he went on, pale with emotion, his whole power of observation concentrated upon the whitening face and lowered eyelids of the woman sitting at his feet. “Not for the world, not for my life,” she said, with her hands tightly clasped, her eyes still hidden under the heavy lids, tearless now--and with dry and quivering lips, from which the words came with a dull and soulless sound. “I would die to save him an hour’s pain. I would fling away this wretched life rather than grieve him for a moment.” “Poor soul!” murmured the priest, pitying that debt of self-abasement which he understood so well, under whatsoever guise she might hide her contrition. “Poor soul, you talk too lightly of that great mystery which we should all face in a spirit of deep humility. Do you feel that you can contemplate that passage through death to a new life without fear of the issue? Have you no reckoning to make with the God who pardons repentant sinners? Do you stand before Him with a clear conscience--having kept nothing back--cherished no hidden sin?” “No one can be without sin in His sight. Do you suppose that I am sinless, or that I have ever believed myself sinless? I know how weak and poor a thing I am--a worm in the sight of Him who rules the universe. But if--if He cares for such as I, He knows that I am sorry for every sinful thought and every sinful act of my life.” She spoke in short sentences, each phrase broken by a sob. She felt as if he were tearing out her heart, this man who had been heretofore so kindly and indulgent in his speech and manner that he seemed to make religion an easy thing, a garment as loose and expansive as philosophy itself. And, now, all at once he appeared before her as a judge, searching out her heart, cruel, inflexible, weighing her in the balance, and finding her wanting. “If I am sorry,” she murmured, between her sobs, “what more can God or man require of me?”