"I am tired of it," she cried, with tears. "I am tired and sick of life. I want to die, and only I don't dare. Sometimes I come here to the church and the music and the preaching seem to make me ashamed of my wicked thoughts; but it doesn't stay, and I go back to all my miseries and I am no better. I don't know what has kept me from the worst kind of a life. I don't know what keeps me from the worst kind of a death. I have sometimes wondered if it wasn't that you pray for me--among your enemies, I suppose, if you do." There was a pause, and then she went on: "Last Sunday night I heard you preach; I had only heard your voice reading the prayers before that. Ever since, I have wanted to speak to you to ask you about something that you said." Then St. John lifted his head and said, in a voice that was notably calm, "I hope you will come here often, and, if you will let me, I will ask Father Ellis to talk with you and to give you counsel. He has had great experience, and he will help you." Missy listened breathless for the words that came at last, after a succession of emotions had passed over her face. "You have not forgiven me!" she said. "Is that being good and holy, as you teach? You will not talk to me and help me yourself, but send me to some one I don't know and who won't understand. Why won't you forgive me? Heaven knows I have been sorry enough and repented enough!" A lovely smile passed over St. John's face, one would almost have said there was a shade of amusement in it, but it was all gone in a moment, and the habitual seriousness returned. "I had never thought of any question of forgiveness," he said. "Be assured of it in any case." "Then why," she hurried on, keenly searching his face, "why will you not let me speak to you? Why will you not teach me, and help me, as you say Father Ellis would do?" "Because it is not my part of the work. He has more experience." "But you teach Armand. You spend hours in the prison. You have the direction of souls there." "That is a different work," he said, simply. "Then," she exclaimed, passionately, "since you refuse me I will go away. I have been hoping all this time for help from you. If you won't give it, God knows, that is the end. I will not speak to strangers and lay open my miserable past. I shall not listen to my conscience any more. I will get out of my wretchedness any way I can. I might have known that churches and priests would not do me any good." "I should be sorry," he said, calmly, "to think you had come to such a resolution. No one person is likely to do you more good than another. If the intention of your heart is right, God can help you through one person as well as through another." "You distrust me," she said. "I suppose I ought not to wonder at it, but I did not think men as good as you could be so hard. Why do you doubt that the intention of my heart is right?"