modesty, self-respect, and holiness, which had been taken away from me. He cannot allow you, or any other man, to tear again and spoil that vestment which is the work of His hands."

These words had exhausted her; it was evident to me that she wanted some rest. I left her alone, but I was absolutely beside myself. Filled with admiration for the sublime lessons which I had received from the lips of that angel, who, it was evident, was soon to fly away from us, I felt a supreme disgust for myself, my theologians, and—shall I say it? yes—I felt, in that solemn hour, a supreme disgust for my Church, which was so cruelly defiling me and all the priests, in the confessional-box. I felt in that hour a supreme horror for that auricular confession, which is so often such a pit of perdition and supreme misery for the confessor and the penitent. I went out, walked two hours on the Plains of Abraham, to breathe the pure and refreshing air of the mountain. There alone I sat on a stone, on the very spot where Wolf and Montcalm had fought and died, and wept to my heart's content on my irreparable degradation, and the degradation of all the priests through the confessional.

At four o'clock in the afternoon I went back again to the house of my dear dying Mary. The mother took me apart, and very politely said, "My dear Mr. Chiniquy, do you not think that it is time that our dear child should receive the last sacraments? She seemed to be much better this morning, and we were full of hope; but she is now rapidly sinking. Please lose no time in giving her the holy viaticum and the extreme unction."

I said, "Yes, Madam; let me pass a few minutes alone with our poor dear child, that I may prepare her for the last sacraments."

When alone with her, I again fell on my knees, and, amidst torrents of tears, I said, "Dear sister, it is my desire to give you the holy viaticum and the extreme unction; but tell me, how can I dare to do a thing so solemn against all the prohibitions of our holy Church? How can I give you the holy communion without first giving you absolution? and how can I give you absolution when you earnestly persist in telling me that you have committed sins which you will never declare either to me or any other confessor?

"You know that I cherish and respect you as if you were an angel sent to me from heaven. You told me the other day that you blessed the day that you first saw and knew me. I say the same thing. I bless the day that I have known you; I bless every hour that I have passed by your bed of suffering; I bless every tear which I have shed with you on your sins and on my own; I bless every hour that we have passed together in looking to the wounds of our beloved, dying Saviour; I bless you for having forgiven me your death! for I know it, and I confess it a thousand times in the presence of God, I have killed you, dear sister. But now I prefer a thousand times to die than to say to you a word which would pain you in any way, or trouble the peace of your soul. Please, my dear sister, tell me what I can and must do for you in this solemn hour."

Calmly, and with a smile of joy, such as I had never seen before, nor have seen since, she said, "I thank and bless you, dear father, for the parable of the Prodigal Son, on which you preached a month ago. You have brought me to the feet of the dear Saviour; there, I have found a peace and a joy which surpass anything which human heart can feel; I have thrown myself into the arms of my heavenly Father, and I know He has mercifully accepted and forgiven His poor prodigal child! Oh, I see the angels with their golden harps around the throne of the Lamb! Do you not hear the celestial harmony of their songs? I go—I go to join them in my Father's house. I shall not be lost!"

While she was thus speaking to me, my eyes were really turned into two fountains of tears, and I was unable, as well as unwilling, to see anything, so entirely overcome was I by the sublime words which were flowing from the dying lips of that dear child, who was no more a sinner, but a real angel of Heaven to me. I was listening to her words; there was a celestial music in every one of them. But she had raised her voice in such a strange way, when she had begun to say, "I go to my Father's house," and she had made such a cry of joy when she had let the last words, "not be lost," escape her lips, that I raised my head and opened my eyes to look at her. I suspected that something strange had occurred.

I got upon my feet, passed my handkerchief over my face, to wipe away the tears which were preventing me from seeing with accuracy, and looked at her.

Her hands were crossed on her breast, and there was on her face the expression of a really superhuman joy; her beautiful eyes were fixed as if they were looking on some grand and sublime spectacle; it seemed to me at first that she was praying.

In that very same instant the mother rushed into the room, crying, "My God! my God! what does that cry 'lost' mean?"—for her last words, "not be lost," particularly the last one, had been pronounced with such a powerful voice that they had been heard almost everywhere in the house.

I made a sign with my hand to prevent the distressed mother from making any noise, and troubling her dying child in her prayer, for I really thought that she had stopped speaking, as she used so often to do, when alone with me, in order to pray. But I was mistaken. That redeemed soul had gone, on the golden wings of love, to join the multitudes of those who have washed their robes in the blood of the Lamb, to sing the eternal Alleluia.

CHAPTER II.

auricular confession a deep pit of perdition for the priest

It was some time after our Mary had been buried. The terrible and mysterious cause of her death was known only to God and to me. Though her loving mother was still weeping over her grave, she had soon been forgotten, as usual, by the greatest part of those who had known her: but she was constantly present to my mind. I never entered the confessional-box without hearing her solemn, though so mild, voice telling me, "There must be somewhere something wrong in the auricular confession. Twice I have been destroyed by my confessors; and I have known several others who have been destroyed in the same way."

More than once, when her voice was ringing in my ears from her tomb, I had shed bitter tears on the profound and unfathomable degradation into which I, with the other priests, had to fell in the confessional-box. For many, many times, stories as deplorable as that of this unfortunate girl were confessed to me by city as well as country females.

One night I was awakened by the rumbling noise of thunder, when I heard some one knocking at the door. I hastened out of bed to ask who was there. The answer was that the Rev. Mr. —— was dying, and that he wanted to see me before his death. I dressed myself, and was soon on the highway. The darkness was fearful; and often, had it not been for the lightning which was almost constantly tearing the clouds, we should not have known where we were. After a long and hard journey through the darkness and the storm, we arrived at the house of the dying priest. I went directly to his room, and really found him very low; he could hardly speak. With a sign of his hand he bade his servant-girl and a young man who were there go out, and leave him alone with me.

Then, with a low voice, he said, "Is it you who prepared poor Mary to die?"

"Yes, sir," I answered.

"Please tell me the truth. Is it the fact that she died the death of a reprobate, and that her last words were, 'Oh, my God! I am lost'?"

I answered: "As I was the confessor of that girl, and we were talking together on matters which pertained to her confession, in the very moment that she was unexpectedly summoned to