Ten years later, I was called to preach a retreat (a kind of revival) in that same parish. That lady, then an absolute stranger to me, came to my confessional-box and confessed to me those details as I now give them. She seemed to be really penitent, and I gave her absolution and the entire pardon of her sins, as my Church told me to do. On the last day of the revival, the merchant invited me to a grand dinner. Then it was that I came to know who my penitent had been. I must not forget to mention that she had confessed to me that, of her four children, the last three belonged to her confessor! He had lost his mother, and, his sister having married, his parsonage had become more accessible to his fair penitents, many of whom had availed themselves of that opportunity to practise the lessons they had learned in the confessional. The priest had been removed to a higher position, where he, more than ever, enjoyed the confidence of his superiors, the respect of the people, and the love of his female penitents. I never felt so embarrassed in my life as when at the table of that cruelly-victimised man. We had hardly begun to take our dinner when he asked me if I had known their late pastor, the amiable Rev. Mr. ---- I answered, "Yes, sir, I know him." "Is he not a most accomplished priest?" "Yes, sir, he is a most accomplished man," I answered. "Why is it," rejoined the good merchant, "that the Bishop has taken him away from us? He was doing so well here! He had so deservedly earned the confidence of all by his piety and gentlemanly manners that we made every effort to keep him with us. I drew up a petition myself, which all the people signed, to induce the Bishop to let him remain in our midst; but in vain. His lordship answered us that he wanted him for a more important place on account of his rare ability, and we had to submit. His zeal and devotedness knew no bounds. In the darkest and most stormy nights he was always ready to come to the first call of the sick. I shall never forget how quickly and cheerfully he responded to my appeal when, a few years ago, I went, in the midst of one of our most chilly nights, to request him to visit my wife, who was very sick." At this stage of the conversation, I must confess that I nearly laughed outright. The gratitude of that poor dupe of the confessional to the priest who had come to bring shame and destruction to his house, and the idea of that very man going himself to convey to his home the corrupter of his own wife, seemed to me so ludicrous that, for a moment, I had to make a superhuman effort to control myself.