"My father," replies Rungeah, her love and joy breathing from her heart and struggling for utterance on her lips, "whenever I think of Him, His goodness and His love, of which I never tire reading, I am filled with gladness and praise; I am now never weary, never cast down, never afflicted, nor does my heart or my pulse ever fail me in loving and adoring Him."
"My daughter," interrupted the priest, suddenly, "this is not confession; you must tell me of your secret sins, the guilty thoughts, words, and acts you have cherished, spoken, or committed, when you were still a believer in the false and horrible doctrines of the Buddha."
A deep flush of pride, which the girl herself does not quite understand, overspreads her beautiful face, and her lips, still quivering, remain parted in surprise. Her secret sins and guilty thoughts! Why blame her for not remembering them?
She was as pure as the snow-flake upon the mountain-top.
She turned her thoughts upon herself, and tried to recall some sin; she would have given the world to find some grave fault which she could justly own as hers, to pour into the ears of the impatient priest. But she could not recall a single one.
"My memory is treacherous, good father," said she; "I cannot now recall any one of my sins in particular, though I must have done many, many wrong things, unless, indeed, it is the one I have committed in forsaking my dear old god Buddha, whom I did truly love and reverence until I heard and read of the beautiful P'hra Jesu?"
"This is not satisfactory," said the priest, dryly; "you will have to do penance for such thoughts as these; and where did you read of P'hra Jesu?"
"Ah!" said the girl, "I have a beautiful book which tells me all about him."
"But who gave it to you?" persisted the priest.