I wish my readers could have seen the meeting between Catherine Peyton and this burly ecclesiastic. She came into the drawing-room with that imperious air and carriage which had made her so unpopular with her own sex; and at the bare sight of Father Francis, drooped and bent in a moment as she walked; and her whole body indicated a submissiveness, graceful, but rather abject: it was as if a young poplar should turn to a weeping willow in half a moment. Thus metamorphosed, the Beauty of Cumberland glided up to Francis, and sank almost to her knee before him, crossed her hands on her bosom, lowered her lovely head, and awaited his benediction. The father made rapidly the sign of the cross over that thorough-bred head and golden hair, and blessed her business-like. The hand of less employment hath the daintier sense. _Shakespeare._ Father Francis blessed so many of these pretty creatures every week, that he had long outgrown your fine romantic way of blessing a body. (We manage these things better in the theatre.) Then he lent her his hand to rise, and asked her in what she required his direction at present. "In that which shall decide my whole life," said she. Francis responded by a look of paternal interest. "But first," murmured she, "let me confess to you, and obtain absolution, if I may. Ah, father, my sins have been many since last confession." "Be it so," said Father Francis, resignedly. "Confession is the best preface to Direction." And he seated himself with a certain change of manner, an easy assumption of authority. "Nay, father," suggested the lady, "we shall be more private in my room." "As you will, Mistress Catherine Peyton," said the priest, returning to his usual manner. So then the fair penitent led her spiritual judge captive up another flight of stairs, and into her little boudoir. A cheerful wood fire crackled and flamed up the chimney, and a cloth had been laid on a side table: cold turkey and chine graced the board, and a huge glass magnum of purple Burgundy glowed and shone in the rays of the cheery fire. Father Francis felt cosy at the sight; and at once accepted Kate's invitation to take some nourishment before entering on the labour of listening to the catalogue of her crimes. "I fasted yesterday," he muttered: and the zeal with which he attacked the viands rendered the statement highly credible. He invited Kate to join him; but she declined. He returned more than once to the succulent meats, and washed all down with a pint of the fine old Burgundy, perfumed and purple. Meantime she of the laity sat looking into the fire with heavenly-minded eyes. At last, with a gentle sigh of content, the ghostly father installed himself in an arm-chair, by the fire, and invited his penitent to begin.