“Why, friend, what accident is this?” he ask’d. “In tears, too, tears?—Tell now, what sullen storm Has left such heavy drops? Did it not know That these too tender lids might droop? if droop, What rare views they might close to some one here?— What can have happen’d? “Why not speak to me?— You seem the very statue of yourself.— Why, what has chill’d you so?—Not I?—Not I?— Pauline, I know, if I to you were cold, A certain rosy face with opening lips Could come with power to bring me summer air, Dispelling sweetly my most wintry wish, Despite myself!—Why will you trust me not?” And then I spoke to him. I hinted first My moods were odd; not moods for him to mind. “Odd,” answer’d he; “I knew a family Where all the children grew so very odd,— Like fruit when tough to touch and sour to taste. Not ripe nor mellow. Too much spring had they, And not enough of summer in their home.— I know that you are not so very odd That you would keep apart from one you love. And I, can I not hope that I am one?” XXV. At these words then (how could I help myself?) My heart-gates flew wide open; emptied all,— The whole the priest had told me of my sin; And how we should not talk together more. How wild it made him! Never had I seen One shaken so. His anger frighten’d me. “This crafty priest,” he said, “you ask’d of God: He answer’d you about the Church, ‘of course.’ And of the Church about the priests, ‘of course,’ And of the priests about himself, ‘of course.’ I tell you this is cursèd selfishness; I tell you it is downright sacrilege!— To strain the oceans of the Infinite Down through that sieve, man’s windpipe, wheezing out, ‘I deal the voice of God, I, I, the priest.’” “O Haydn,” said I, “How—how can you dare?” “How dare?” he cried out, “dare? Am I a dog, A dog or woman cringing to a man, Because of kicks or curses?” “Nay,” I sobb’d, “I kneel before his office, not to him.” “Poor girl,” he said, “forgive me—stop—I beg— What? can you think that I would make you weep? Not, darling, not of you, I meant to speak, But of the system.” “System,” I replied; “Why, Haydn, are you not a Christian, then?” “And wherefore not?” he ask’d. “Because,” I said, “You speak so of the Church.” “But I,” said he, “Was arguing not of that, but of the priest.” “And he has been ordain’d,” I said: “And you, You reverence not the ministers of God?” “Of God,” he mutter’d,—“yes, when that they are. I reverence the princeship; not the prince Who doffs his regal robes, and leaves his throne, And lowers his aims and slaves it with mere serfs.” XXVI.