“No one has said anything of the sort. Only I cannot help thinking, from your own words and from your own behaviour, that that must be the cause of your misery.” “It is very hard that the parson should think such things,” she muttered again. “My poor woman,” I said, “you sent for me because you had something to confess to me. I want to help you if I can. But you are too proud to confess it yet, I see. There is no use in my staying here. It only does you harm. So I will bid you good-morning. If you cannot confess to me, confess to God.” “God knows it, I suppose, without that.” “Yes. But that does not make it less necessary for you to confess it. How is he to forgive you, if you won’t allow that you have done wrong?” “It be not so easy that as you think. How would you like to say you had took something that wasn’t your own?” “Well, I shouldn’t like it, certainly; but if I had it to do, I think I should make haste and do it, and so get rid of it.” “But that’s the worst of it; I can’t get rid of it.” “But,” I said, laying my hand on hers, and trying to speak as kindly as I could, although her whole behaviour would have been exceedingly repulsive but for her evidently great suffering, “you have now all but confessed taking something that did not belong to you. Why don’t you summon courage and tell me all about it? I want to help you out of the trouble as easily as ever I can; but I can’t if you don’t tell me what you’ve got that isn’t yours.” “I haven’t got anything,” she muttered. “You had something, then, whatever may have become of it now.” She was again silent. “What did you do with it?” “Nothing.” I rose and took up my hat. She stretched out her hand, as if to lay hold of me, with a cry. “Stop, stop. I’ll tell you all about it. I lost it again. That’s the worst of it. I got no good of it.” “What was it?” “A sovereign,” she said, with a groan. “And now I’m a thief, I suppose.” “No more a thief than you were before. Rather less, I hope. But do you think it would have been any better for you if you hadn’t lost it, and had got some good of it, as you say?” She was silent yet again. “If you hadn’t lost it you would most likely have been a great deal worse for it than you are--a more wicked woman altogether.” “I’m not a wicked woman.” “It is wicked to steal, is it not?” “I didn’t steal it.” “How did you come by it, then?” “I found it.” “Did you try to find out the owner?” “No. I knew whose it was.” “Then it was very wicked not to return it. And I say again, that if you had not lost the sovereign you would have been most likely a more wicked woman than you are.” “It was very hard to lose it. I could have given it back. And then I wouldn’t have lost my character as I have done this day.” “Yes, you could; but I doubt if you would.” “I would.” “Now, if you had it, you are sure you would give it back?” “Yes, that I would,” she said, looking me so full in the face that I was sure she meant it.