“You must continue. I confess every night upon my knees. I wish I could have a priest. I used to be afraid to confess my sins to a real person, and that kept me good often when I should otherwise have done wrong. Ah, me, there are no priests in the province now. The new laws punish a priest with death if he come to us. I suppose they will shut us out next.” This injustice made my blood boil. I had been driven out of France because our church had desired freedom to worship God in our own way. Here the tables were completely turned and I could sympathize with her. When we arrived at the manor-house she told me that she was going into the little chapel room to pray. Would I go with her? I said “yes,” and was surprised at my answer. I stood near the door while she knelt at the foot of the crucifix. When she arose I noticed that there were two stools to kneel upon. “Yes,” she said, observing the direction of my glance. “Little Ruth and I used to kneel there side by side. She was of your faith, too. Often she would put her arm about me and pray in her faith while I prayed in mine. Holy Mother, rest her soul.” She crossed herself devoutly and then we parted. In my own room that night, or rather, morning, for it was nearly dawn when I reached it, I fell to sobbing in great misery. I began to see the error of my ways. I remembered Ruth’s words: “What shall I say at the great day if they charge 'Your brother did this or that wrong in your name? Answer me, Vincent, what shall I say?'” I could do nothing but fall on my knees and cry, God be merciful to me a sinner. After that I rose with more peace of mind. I put my hand upon my bosom where Louis had laid his upon me, and drew out the rosary which I had picked up when Miriam dropped it on the floor of Meg’s cottage. I held it before me for a moment, then I put it to my lips and kissed it as a sacred thing. CHAPTER XXII A FRUITLESS RESOLUTION This scene with Miriam put me in a state of bad humor, for all there was in it to make me glad. It is seldom that sweet recollections come unmixed with sour, and then the sour bite into our thoughts and the sweet are clean forgotten. I ought to have been happy over the dear picture of my sister and her friend praying together, each in her own faith, as Miriam said. But I could think only of my own loss in Ruth’s death, and of what wicked ways I had fallen into without her to keep me free of pitfalls. It was useless to argue with myself that I had been driven against my will; that, through my late career, I had chosen what seemed to be the right path, or, at least, the lesser of two evils. Such meditations gave me no comfort.