Saint Mary Moorfields was continually before her eyes, and Mozart's
music was continually in her ears. An ideal human being had been
revealed to her who understood her, pitied her, and loved her. She
was no longer a mere atom of dust, unnoticed amongst millions of
millions. But the intensity of her faith gave birth to fear and
doubt. Her own words recurred to her, but she was forced to admit
that she must depend upon evidence. If Christ were nothing but a
legend, she might as well kneel to a mist.

In those days, within five miles of her father's house was a small
Roman Catholic chapel. The priest had been well educated, but he
had never questioned any of the dogmas imposed on him as a child.
One Sunday morning, when her father did not go to church, Kate
walked over to the chapel and heard mass. The contrast with Saint
Mary Moorfields was great. The sermon disappointed her. It was
little more than simple insistence on ritual duty. She reflected,
however, that it was not addressed to her, but to those who had been
brought up to believe. As she walked home a strange conflict arose
in her. On the one hand were her imperious needs, which almost
compelled assumption of fact; but the wind blew, and when she looked
up the clouds sailed over the mountains. She sat on a grey rock to
rest. It had lain there for thousands of years, and she was
reminded of the Druid circle above the Greta. She could get no
further with her thinking, and knelt down and prayed for light. It
is of all prayers the most sincere, but she was not answered--at
least not then. The next Sunday she went again to mass, and she had
half a mind to signify her wish to confess, but what could she
confess? She was burdened with no sins, and in confession she could
not fully explain her case. She determined she would write to the
priest and ask him to grant her an interview.