"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 is he to forgive you, if you won't allow that you have done wrong?"
"It be not so easy that as you think. How would you like to say you had took something that wasn't your own?"
"Well, I shouldn't like it, certainly; but if I had it to do, I think I should make haste and do it, and so get rid of it."
"But that's the worst of it; I can't get rid of it."