"No," she muttered. "I have nothing to say about my daughter. She was my
own. I could do as I pleased with her."

I thought with myself, we must have a word about that by and by, but
meantime she must relieve her heart of the one thing whose pressure she
feels.

"Then," I said, "you want to tell me about something that was not your
own?"

"Who said I ever took what was not my own?" she returned fiercely. "Did
Stokes dare to say I took anything that wasn't my own?"

"No one has said anything of the sort. Only I cannot help thinking, from
your own words and from your own behaviour, that that must be the cause of
your misery."

"It is very hard that the parson should think such things," she muttered
again.

"My poor woman," I said, "you sent for me because you had something to
confess to me. I want to help you if I can. But you are too proud to
confess it yet, I see. There is no use in my staying here. It only does you
harm. So I will bid you good-morning. If you cannot confess to me, confess
to God."

"God knows it, I suppose, without that."

"Yes. But that does not make it less necessary for you to confess it. How