‘Ah! I see what has happened; it is lawful to hide from me, to prevaricate and perhaps’—he checked himself. ‘You know that ever since you have grown up I have hidden nothing from you. I have told you everything about my own affairs: I have asked your counsel, for I am old, and the wisdom of an old man is often folly. You have also told me everything: you have opened your heart to me. Think of what you have said to me: I have been mother and father to you. The trouble to me is not merely that you believe in transubstantiation and I do not, but that there is something in you which you reserve for a stranger. What has come to you?—for God’s sake keep close to me for the few remaining years or months of my life. Have you reflected on the absurdities of Romanism? Is it possible that my Kate should kneel at the feet of an ignorant priest!’ She was silent. She knew as little as her father of Roman Catholic history and creeds. He went on: ‘Your aunt, my dear sister—a more beautiful creature never walked this earth—I do not know if she is alive or dead. Can that be true which kills love?’ ‘Father, father,’ she cried, sobbing, ‘nothing can separate us!’ He said no more on that subject, and seemed to recover his peace of mind, although he was not really at rest. He was getting into years and he saw that words were useless and that he must wait the issue of forces which were beyond his control. ‘If she is to go, she must go: resistance will make it worse for me: I must thank God if anything of her is left for me. Thus spoke the weary submission of age, but it was not final, and the half-savage desire for his child’s undivided love awoke in him again, and he prayed that if he could not have it his end might soon come. Kate’s love for her father was deep, but she could not move a single step merely to pacify him. She could have yielded herself entirely to him in worldly matters; she would have doubted many of her strongest beliefs if he had contested them; she would have given up all her happiness for him; she would have died for him; but she could not let go the faintest of her religious dreams, although it was impossible to put them into words. She wrote her letter to the priest. She found him living in a cottage and was somewhat taken aback when she entered. There were hardly any books to be seen, but a crucifix hung on the wall. ‘Miss Radcliffe—an old and honoured name! What can be the object of your visit?’ ‘Father, I am in distress. I want something which perhaps you can give.’ ‘Ah, my child, I understand. You would like to confess, but you are Protestant; I cannot absolve you. Return to the true fold and you can be released.’ ‘O Father, I have committed no crime; I come to you because I doubt and I _must_ believe.’ The holy father was unused to such a penitent, and was perplexed and agitated.