“Madame is in trouble. Madame is fretting. It is not good. Madame must try to rest.”
Lorraine turned her feverish, pain-driven eyes to the kindly face, with a look of beseeching, but she made no reply.
The nurse laid her cool hand on the burning forehead.
“Madame is not a Catholic, but the priest brings healing to all. Shall I ask him to come and pray, that peace may be given to the sick mind?”
“I cannot confess,” Lorraine breathed a little gaspingly. “I could not bring myself to it.”
“It is not necessary. The priest will come to pray if madame wishes.”
“Yes,” was the low response; “please ask him.”
The little old man who took care of the souls of the little old-world village, and had done for three parts of a century, came to her at once, with a womanly tenderness in his face. In a low voice he blessed her, and then knelt down and prayed quietly.
After a time, some of the anguish died out of Lorraine’s eyes. She turned to him weakly and said:
“I am not a Catholic. I do not know if I am anything, but I want to ask you something. If one has sinned, and led another astray, might an act of renunciation perhaps save that other from the consequences of the sin that was not his?”