“I came here to find peace,” she continued. “And I thought I had found it. I thought so till to-day.” “We only find peace in one place, and only there by our own will according with God’s.” “You mean within ourselves.” “Is it not so?” “Yes. Then I was foolish to travel in search of it.” “I would not say that. Place assists the heart, I think, and the way of life. I thought so once.” “When you wished to be a monk?” A deep sadness came into his eyes. “Yes,” he said. “And even now I find it very difficult to say, ‘It was not thy will, and so it is not mine.’ But would you care to tell me if anything has occurred recently to trouble you?” “Something has occurred, Father.” More excitement came into her face and manner. “Do you think,” she went on, “that it is right to try to avoid what life seems to be bringing to one, to seek shelter from--from the storm? Don’t monks do that? Please forgive me if--” “Sincerity will not hurt me,” he interrupted quietly. “If it did I should indeed be unworthy of my calling. Perhaps it is not right for all. Perhaps that is why I am here instead of--” “Ah, but I remember, you wanted to be one of the _freres armes_.” “That was my first hope. But you”--very simply he turned from his troubles to hers--“you are hesitating, are you not, between two courses?” “I scarcely know. But I want you to tell me. Ought we not always to think of others more than of ourselves?” “So long as we take care not to put ourselves in too great danger. The soul should be brave, but not foolhardy.” His voice had changed, had become stronger, even a little stern. “There are risks that no good Christian ought to run: it is not cowardice, it is wisdom that avoids the Evil One. I have known people who seemed almost to think it was their mission to convert the fallen angels. They confused their powers with the powers that belong to God only.” “Yes, but--it is so difficult to--if a human being were possessed by the devil, would not you try--would you not go near to that person?” “If I had prayed, and been told that any power was given me to do what Christ did.” “To cast out--yes, I know. But sometimes that power is given--even to women.” “Perhaps especially to them. I think the devil has more fear of a good mother than of many saints.” Domini realised almost with agony in that moment how her own soul had been stripped of a precious armour. A feeling of bitter helplessness took possession of her, and of contempt for what she now suddenly looked upon as foolish pride. The priest saw that his words had hurt her, yet he did not just then try to pour balm upon the wound. “You came to me to-day as to a spiritual director, did you not?” he asked. “Yes, Father.” “Yet you do not wish to be frank with me. Isn’t that true?” There was a piercing look in the eyes he fixed upon her. “Yes,” she answered bravely. “Why? Cannot you--at least will not you tell me?”