to face with God, to see him discharging the functions of God, to feel
his breath, to undergo the welcome humiliation of his reprimands, to
confide to him her inmost thoughts, scruples, and fears. You must not
imagine, however, that she told him everything, for a pious woman
has rarely the courage to make use of the confessional for a love
confidence. She may perhaps give herself up to the enjoyment of
sentiments which are not devoid of peril, but there is always a
certain degree of mysticism about them which is not to be conciliated
with anything so horrible as sacrilege. At all events, in this
particular case, the girl was so shy that the words would have died
upon her lips, and her passion was a silent, inward, and devouring
fire. And with all this, she was compelled to see him every day and
many times a day; young and handsome, always following a dignified
calling, officiating with the people on their knees before him, the
judge and keeper of her own conscience. It was too much for her, and
her head began to go. Her vigorous organization, deflected from its
proper course, gave way, and her old father attributed to weakness
of mind what was the result of the ravages wrought by the fantastic
workings of a love-stricken heart.

"Just as a mountain stream is turned from its course by some
insuperable barrier, the poor girl, with no means of making her
affection known to the object of it, found consolation in very
insignificant ways: to secure his notice for a moment, to be able to
render him any slight service, and to fancy that she was of use to him
was enough, and she may have said to herself, who can tell? he is
a man after all, and he may perhaps be touched in reality and only
restrained from showing that he is through discipline. All these
efforts broke against a bar of iron, a wall of ice. The priest
maintained the same cool reserve. She was the daughter of the man for