“These are strange words from a Catholic priest,” said I, looking at him. A flush of impatience crossed his face again. “I need not qualify my words to you, I am sure. What I need—a wretched, debased sinner—stripes—fasting—silence—and digging my own grave daily—are not the necessary aliment of Claire’s soul, fresh from the forming hand of the All-Pure.” “Then I understand that Claire, if I take her, is to be like my own child; that no interference of any kind with my authority or influence is to be allowed?” “There is no person living authorized to interfere,” said Father Angelo, sadly. “Her father will be dead to her. And God will reward or punish you as you deal by this forlorn and most angelic child.” “I accept the trust,” said I, with the same solemnity that was expressed in the manner of the unhappy father. He took my hand in his, and holding it up, repeated a short prayer in Latin, which I took to be an invocation, but I said nothing; and, indeed, was so agitated and exhausted that I could not speak. “I shall leave this place this morning,” said he, with a more composed voice, “and shall send to you such information as may be necessary to her future welfare in any possible contingency.” He rung a bell which stood on the table, and Claire came into the garden, as if she had been in waiting. He made a sign to her to attend to me, and as soon as I had taken the restorative she hastened to offer, rose to go. I shall never forget the look of anguished affection that spread over his pale face, as he murmured above Claire’s bright head the customary benediction. His whole being seemed one thrill of pain. Stooping over he pressed on her forehead a kiss of such love! and then without another word hurried away. Claire looked astonished, as well she might, for she had never seen him agitated before, though, as she said, she conjectured he must have suffered much. “He feels sorrowfully at leaving you, my child,” said I, “he tells me he is about leaving this part of the country.” She looked at me, as if she wondered at his communicating such an intention to me, rather than to herself, but was too delicate to inquire further. The same afternoon a package came to the convent, directed to me, and contained, among other things, a letter from Father Angelo “to his beloved daughter in Christ Jesus”—in which he recommended her to accept the proposal I had made of taking her with me to America, and containing besides some affectionate words of advice. It was brief, and I could easily see that many feelings had prevented his being more prolix. I then entered more fully into the subject with Claire, of her leaving her native country for mine. I found, to my great joy, that she was not only willing but desirous to go with me, and that a night’s free converse with me had given me much of her affection. “I have not dared to think, dear madam,” she said tearfully, “how ‘doubly lone’ I should be when you were gone.”