It was nearly ten at night when I left the house, to go and take some rest. But it is not necessary to say that I passed a sleepless night. My dear Mary was there, pale, dying from the deadly blow which I had given her in the confessional. She was there, on her bed of death, her heart pierced with the dagger which my Church had put into my hands! And instead of rebuking, cursing me for my savage, merciless fanaticism, she was blessing me! She was dying from a broken heart, and I was not allowed by my Church to give her a single word of consolation and hope, for she had not yet made her confession! I had mercilessly bruised that tender plant, and there was nothing in my hands to heal the wounds I had made! It was very probable that she would die the next day, and I was forbidden to show her the crown of glory which Jesus has prepared in His kingdom for the repenting sinner! My desolation was really unspeakable, and I think I would have been suffocated, and have died that night, if the stream of tears which constantly flowed from my eyes had not been as a balm to my distressed heart. How dark and long the hours of that night seemed to me! Before the dawn of day I arose, to read my theologians again, and see if I could not find some one who would allow me to forgive the sins of that dear child without forcing her to tell me everything she had done. But they seemed to me more than ever unanimously inexorable, and I put them back on the shelves of my library with a broken heart. At nine a.m. the next day I was by the bed of our dear sick Mary. I cannot sufficiently tell the joy I felt when the doctor and the whole family said to me, "She is much better; the rest of last night has wrought a marvelous change indeed." With a really angelic smile she extended her hand towards me, that I might press it in mine; and she said, "I thought, last evening, that the dear Saviour would take me to Him, but He wants me, dear Father, to give you a little more trouble; but be patient, it cannot, be long before the solemn hour of the appeal will ring. Will you please read me the history of the sufferings and death of the beloved Saviour which you read me the other day? It does me so much good to see how He has loved me, such a miserable sinner." There was a calm and a solemnity in her words which struck me singularly, as well as all those who were there. After I had finished reading, she exclaimed, "He has loved me so much that He died for my sins!" And she shut her eyes as if to meditate in silence, but there was a stream of big tears rolling down her cheeks. I knelt down by her bed with her family to pray, but I could not utter a single word. The idea that this dear child was there, dying from the cruel fanaticism of my theologians and my own cowardice in obeying them, was as a mill-stone to my neck. It was killing me.