The very first day after preaching and passing five or six hours in the confessional, the hospitable curate gave us a supper before going to bed. But it was evident that a kind of uneasiness pervaded the whole company of the father confessors. For my own part, I could hardly raise my eyes to look at my neighbour, and when I wanted to speak a word it seemed that my tongue was not free as usual; even my throat was as if it were choked; the articulation of the sounds was imperfect. It was evidently the same with the rest of the priests. Instead, then, of the noisy and cheerful conversation of the other meals, there were only a few insignificant words exchanged with a half-supressed tone. The Rev. Mr. Proulx (the curate) at first looked as if he were partaking also of that singular though general despondent feeling. During the first part of the lunch he hardly said a word; but at last, raising his head and turning his honest face towards us, in his usual gentlemanly and cheerful manner, he said:-- "Dear friends, I see that you are all under the influence of the most painful feelings. There is a burden on you that you can neither shake off nor bear as you wish. I know the cause of your trouble, and I hope you will not find fault with me if I help you to recover from that disagreeable mental condition. You have heard in the confessional the history of many great sins, but I know that this is not what troubles you. You are all old enough in the confessional to know the miseries of poor human nature. Without any more preliminaries I will come to the subject. It is no more a secret in this place that one of the priests who has preceded me has been very unfortunate, weak, and guilty with the greatest part of the married women whom he has confessed. Not more than one in ten have escaped him. I would not mention this fact had I got it only from the confessional, but I know it well from other sources, and I can speak of it freely without breaking the secret seal of the confessional. Now what troubles you is that, probably, when a good number of those women have confessed to you what they had done with their confessor, you have not asked them how long it was since they had sinned with him, and in spite of yourselves you think that I am the guilty man. This does, naturally, embarrass you when you are in my presence and at my table. But please ask them, when they come again to confess, how many months or years have passed away since their last love affair with a confessor, and you will see that you may suppose that you are in the house of an honest man. You may look me in the face and have no fear to address me as if I were still worthy of your esteem; for, thanks be to God, I am not the guilty priest who has ruined and destroyed so many souls here."