When I was near fifteen I had begun to grow troubled in my conscience as to my Confirmation. How could I face the cloister, an uncertified soldier of my creed? The chaplain had seemed kinder to me of late; or perhaps it would be truer to say, less bearishly unapproachable. To be sure, he could not always be adamant to the natural graces it was his business to help adorn. And, in proportion as he relaxed, I was moved to conciliate him with fifty little winning attentions, to which he could not be altogether insensible. I found plausible excuses for his confounding entomology with theology, citing the “little Bedesman of Christ” in vindication of the Nature God. I learned to rear clammy grubs in pots of earth, that I might surprise him with the results--beautiful winged creatures which I likened to the souls emancipated under his tutelage. I discovered, or invented, a hundred symbols for his hagiology. I sewed buttons on his coat, and brushed his great hat, with actual reverence for the moth which had settled in it from the brain below. Was it my fault if the ridiculous creature misconstrued all these little wistful _égards_? I sought my way only by him, as one might propitiate a surly but indispensable guide, and in my utter innocence took his morose silences, and the scowling suspicion which grew in his eyes, for some late dawn of sympathy, some increased consideration, if not tenderness, towards the pupil whom he was conscious of his heart having maligned. How cruelly my trust was abused, will show in an interview to which madam unexpectedly summoned me. “Diana,” she said--she was seated knitting a comforter for the monster himself, and her lips, as she bent over her work, had a mechanical but rather shaky smile on them--“have you a daughter’s regard for our good chaplain?” “O yes, madam!” I answered, wondering what was to come. “Yet it is not a daughter’s part to indite love sonnets to her Father,” she said steadily, without looking up. I stared, and flushed, and burst into tears. She also reddened, and produced a paper from her pocket. “Is this yours?” she demanded. “He found it slipped into his breviary. It appears to me to bear only one construction.” “And what is that, madam?” I asked coldly. My little outbreak had been mastered as soon as vented. My heart blazed with anger over this outrageous Cymon in a cassock. “I put the question to you,” she said, her thin bosom heaving a little. “If it is as I suspect, I should blush to name it.” “Blush rather for yourself,” I said, in the same chill tone, “to plant the slander in a young girl’s soul. I will be a Catholic no more.” She rose, pale and agitated. “Do you know what you say?” she breathed in fear. “_You!_ self-dedicated to the cloister!” “I renounce the pledge!” I cried, in a sudden burst of passion. “I will no longer believe what Father Pope believes, or confess again to him anything but lies, since those are what he likes to trade in.”