little bird in its nest; but while I love Him, I cannot help loving
everybody whom He loves, even His enemies: and, father, my heart prays
within me for this poor sinner, whether I will or no; something within
me continually intercedes for him."

"Oh, Agnes! Agnes! blessed child, pray for me also," said the monk, with
a sudden burst of emotion which perfectly confounded his disciple. He
hid his face with his hands.

"My blessed father!" said Agnes, "how could I deem that holiness like
yours had any need of my prayers?"

"Child! child! you know nothing of me. I am a miserable sinner, tempted
of devils, in danger of damnation."

Agnes stood appalled at this sudden burst, so different from the rigid
and restrained severity of tone in which the greater part of the
conversation had been conducted. She stood silent and troubled; while
he, whom she had always regarded with such awful veneration, seemed
shaken by some internal whirlwind of emotion whose nature she could not
comprehend.

At length Father Francesco raised his head, and recovered his wonted
calm severity of expression.

"My daughter," he said, "little do the innocent lambs of the flock know
of the dangers and conflicts through which the shepherds must pass who
keep the Lord's fold. We have the labors of angels laid upon us, and we
are but men. Often we stumble, often we faint, and Satan takes advantage
of our weakness. I cannot confer with you now as I would; but, my child,