“There is but one thing I can say with confidence at this moment,” he resumed: “it is, that I am your friend, and will stand by you. But the first part of friendship sometimes is to confess poverty, and I want to tell you that, of the very things concerning which I ought to know most, I knew least. I have but lately begun to feel after God, and I dare not say that I have found him, but I think I know now where to find him. And I do think, if we could find him, then we should find help. All I can do for you now is only to be near you, and talk to you, and pray to God for you, that so together we may wait for what light may come.--Does anything ever look to you as if it would make you feel better?” “I have no right to feel better or take comfort from anything.” “I am not sure about that.--Do you feel any better for having me come to see you?” “Oh, yes, indeed I do!” “Well, there is no wrong in that, is there?” “I don’t know. It seems a sneaking kind of thing: she has got none of it. My sister makes excuses for me, but the moment I begin to listen to them I only feel the more horrid.” “I have said nothing of that kind to you.” “No, sir.” “And yet you like to have me here?” “Yes, indeed, sir,” he answered, earnestly. “And it does not make you think less of your crime?” “No. It makes me feel it worse than ever to see you sitting there, a clean, strong, innocent man, and think what I might have been.” “Then the comfort you get from me does you no harm, at least. If I were to find my company made you think with less hatred of your crime, I should go away that instant.” “Thank you, sir,” said Leopold humbly. “Oh, sir!” he resumed after a little silence, “--to think that never more to all eternity shall I be able to think of myself as I used to think!” “Perhaps you used to think too much of yourself,” returned the curate. “For the greatest fool and rascal in creation there is yet a worse condition, and that is--not to know it, but think himself a respectable man. As the event proves, though you would doubtless have laughed at the idea, you were then capable of committing a murder. I have come to see--at least I think I have--that except a man has God dwelling in him, he may be, or may become, capable of any crime within the compass of human nature.” “I don’t know anything about God,” said Leopold. “I daresay I thought I did before this happened--before I did it, I mean,” he added in correction,”--but I know now that I don’t, and never did.” “Ah, Leopold!” said the curate, “think, if my coming to you comforts you, what would it be to have him who made you always with you!” “Where would be the good? I daresay he might forgive me, if I were to do this and that, but where would be the good of it? It would not take the thing off me one bit.”