The hand of less employment hath the daintier sense.
Shakespeare.
Father Francis blessed so many of these pretty creatures every week, that he had long outgrown your fine romantic way of blessing a body. (We manage these things better in the theatre.) Then he lent her his hand to rise, and asked her in what she required his direction at present.
"In that which shall decide my whole life," said she.
Francis responded by a look of paternal interest.
"But first," murmured she, "let me confess to you, and obtain absolution, if I may. Ah, father, my sins have been many since last confession."
"Be it so," said Father Francis, resignedly. "Confession is the best preface to Direction." And he seated himself with a certain change of manner, an easy assumption of authority.
"Nay, father," suggested the lady, "we shall be more private in my room."
"As you will, Mistress Catherine Peyton," said the priest, returning to his usual manner.
So then the fair penitent led her spiritual judge captive up another flight of stairs, and into her little boudoir. A cheerful wood fire crackled and flamed up the chimney, and a cloth had been laid on a side table: cold turkey and chine graced the board, and a huge glass magnum of purple Burgundy glowed and shone in the rays of the cheery fire.
Father Francis felt cosy at the sight; and at once accepted Kate's invitation to take some nourishment before entering on the labour of listening to the catalogue of her crimes. "I fasted yesterday," he muttered: and the zeal with which he attacked the viands rendered the statement highly credible. He invited Kate to join him; but she declined.