Ideas, words, shot across this mental haze like meteors, but I could not follow them in their swift flight. On Wednesday afternoon when I got home from school and had had my dinner I went out into the streets and wandered aimlessly about. I had said to myself that I would not think about the matter any more, but, needless to say, I thought of nothing else, and so it was that when I came to a Roman Catholic church and saw the door was open, I could not help going inside and sitting down before one of the confessionals. The name of the priest, Father Dempsey, was printed in large letters above it. I had a faint hope of seeing somebody come out or go in, but in this I was disappointed. Three little girls were busy with their beads, but they suspended their acts of devotion to cast glances at me, and whisper, and even giggle. A woman was kneeling before an altar that shone with ornaments suggestive of decorations from a Christmas tree. Her eyes were fixed on a bright oleograph of the Virgin, and her lips never ceased moving. A couple of lighted candles seemed to sweat ugly yellow tears, which ran down over dirty candlesticks. And then I saw a fat little sallow priest, his chin, upper lip, and cheeks, blue from much shaving, come waddling down the aisle, and I wondered if this were Father Dempsey. As he passed he stared at me, and I saw in his dull little eyes that expression of invulnerable stupidity I had noticed in the faces of so many of his brothers when I met them in the street. The fascination that had drawn me into the church had disappeared. Everything――the smell of stale incense, the cheap decorations, the bad pictures, the kneeling woman, the girls with their beads――had become almost nauseating. The appalling unintelligence of it all shocked me, much as the display of a diseased body had now and then shocked me. It was wrong, it was gross, anything less spiritual I could not imagine. And my idea of confessing to a priest was wrong. I got up and left the church, the last thing I saw being the thick sediment of dirt at the bottom of the stoup. After tea I went up to my bedroom, George’s and mine, and got out my books to do some work. At first I thought I would not go to Mr. Applin, but as time passed this decision grew weaker, and presently, instead of reading, I tried to make up my mind on the point. Then when it drew near to nine o’clock I was no longer even uncertain. What had my impressions of this afternoon to do with the step I was about to take? Besides, they had been very superficial, and to be influenced by them would be as stupid as to refuse to read a book because its binding happened to be soiled. I walked quickly to Mr. Applin’s house and knocked boldly at the door. It opened with a startling promptitude; evidently the servant had been in the hall. “Is Mr. Applin at home?” I asked, my stammer suddenly beginning to manifest itself. “He is. Who shall I say wants him?”