While I was sick Father Darity came often to see me, and by his kindness succeeded in gaining my affections. I was a great favorite with him; he always called me his little girl, and tried in every way to make me contented. He wished to make me say that I was happy there, that I liked to live with them as well as with my father. But I could never be persuaded to say this, for it was not the truth, and I would not tell a falsehood unless forced to do so. He said I must be a good girl, and he hoped I would sometime see better times, but I could never see my father again, and I must not desire it. He advised me, however hard it might be, to try and love all who came into the nunnery, even those who were unkind, who wished to injure me or wound my feelings. He told me how Jesus Christ loved his enemies; how he died for them a cruel death on the cross; how, amid his bitter agonies, he prayed for them, and with his expiring breath he cried, "Father, forgive them, they know not what they do." "And now," said he, "can you do as Jesus Christ did? He has set you an example, can you not follow it?" "No, sir," I replied, "I cannot love those who punish me so cruelly, so unjustly. I cannot love the little girl who reported what I said in the yard, when she said as bad things as I did." "But you forget," said he, "that in doing this she only obeyed the rules of the house. She only did her duty; if you had done yours, you would have reported her." "I'll never do that," I exclaimed, emboldened by his kindness. "It is a bad rule, and--" "Hush, hush, child!" he cried, interrupting me. "Do you know to whom you are speaking? and do you forget that you are a little girl? Are you wiser than your teachers? I must give you a penance for those naughty words, and you will pray for a better spirit." He said much more to me, and gave me good advice that I remember much better than I followed. He enjoined if upon me to keep up good courage, as I would gain my health faster. He then bade me farewell, telling me not to forget, to repeat certain prayers as a penance for my sin in speaking so boldly. O, did he think when he talked to me so kindly, so faithfully, that it was his last opportunity to give me good advice? Did he know that he left me to return no more? I saw nothing unusual in his appearance, and I did not suspect that it was the last time I should see his pleasant face and listen to his kindly voice. I loved that man, and bitter were the tears I shed when I learned that I should never see him again. The Abbess informed me that he was sent away for something he had done, she did not know what. O that something! I knew well enough what it was. He had a kind heart; he could feel for the unfortunate, and that, with the Roman Catholics, is an "unpardonable sin." CHAPTER V. CEREMONY OF CONFIRMATION.