He stopped entirely, but again raised his eyes with an expression so imploring, that I said at once, “Say on, sir. I promise you that nothing but the most imperative necessity shall make me disclose to any one what you may tell me.” “Thank you,” said he, eagerly; “it is not on my account that I desire secrecy. But there are many reasons—the good of the church—evil tongues. When I have told you all, these reasons will readily suggest themselves to your own mind. You are surprised that I should choose to make an entire stranger my confident in a secret. But in the first place, you are not entirely unknown to me. I have interested myself in you somewhat; and there have been persons enough ready to tell me of your ‘birth, parentage, and education.’ Of your mind and heart, Claire has told me much this morning, in a long conversation we have had; and, in short, circumstances make it necessary that I should confide in you.” There was something so heartfelt in the tone in which Father Angelo spoke, something so entirely sincere, notwithstanding the mystery in which the affair was enveloped, that I repeated what I had before said: “Whatever you wish to say to me, sir, I am ready to hear, to keep entirely to myself, and to assist you to the best of my power.” He looked greatly relieved, and proceeded. “You have divined, before this, madam, the reason of my wish to confide in you. You are a foreigner, a Protestant, a widow, and independent in your actions. Claire needs all these for her friend and efficient adviser.” “Claire! then it is of her you wish to speak? I supposed your secret concerned yourself. She has told me of her own life.” “She has told you what she knew,” said Father Angelo, with the same abruptness as before. Indeed, through the whole of our interview, there was an earnestness which dispensed with the usual forms almost of civility. “I have been waiting, watching for such an event as your coming, ever since last year, when I first became fully acquainted with Claire, and saw how unsuited she was to a conventual life. She has warm feelings and superior intellect, and she is fretted continually by the discrepancy between her inward and outward life. She would be a companion to you, and—she has some means—” he stopped, and a slight flush passed over his pale face. “I should not wish her to be a dependent on the bounty of any person.” “I understand, however, from Claire herself,” said I, “that her mother died poor, and that she has been indebted to charity for her support. This father of hers—if he be living—” “You think he must be a wretch,” said Father Angelo, calmly, “so to desert those who have every claim on his care. Be it so. He is a wretch. And most wretched is he, that, seeing before him the form of his child, and listening to the outpourings of her angelic soul, he should be barred from acknowledging kindred with it, and forced, for the very love he bears her, to tear her from him forever.