“Do not follow me,” she replied. “I am so sinful; but I pray to the blessed Virgin every night, and she sends me strength. I know that she will give me heart to do my duty.”
“Do you really believe that?” I asked.
“Of course, if I pray. I shall get everything I pray for if I ought to have it.”
She spoke with a simpleness of faith that I had never felt in spite of my confident pretensions.
“I wish that I could share your belief. But there are things I have prayed so for without result.”
“You must continue. I confess every night upon my knees. I wish I could have a priest. I used to be afraid to confess my sins to a real person, and that kept me good often when I should otherwise have done wrong. Ah, me, there are no priests in the province now. The new laws punish a priest with death if he come to us. I suppose they will shut us out next.”
This injustice made my blood boil. I had been driven out of France because our church had desired freedom to worship God in our own way. Here the tables were completely turned and I could sympathize with her.
When we arrived at the manor-house she told me that she was going into the little chapel room to pray. Would I go with her? I said “yes,” and was surprised at my answer. I stood near the door while she knelt at the foot of the crucifix. When she arose I noticed that there were two stools to kneel upon.
“Yes,” she said, observing the direction of my glance. “Little Ruth and I used to kneel there side by side. She was of your faith, too. Often she would put her arm about me and pray in her faith while I prayed in mine. Holy Mother, rest her soul.”
She crossed herself devoutly and then we parted. In my own room that night, or rather, morning, for it was nearly dawn when I reached it, I fell to sobbing in great misery. I began to see the error of my ways. I remembered Ruth’s words: “What shall I say at the great day if they charge 'Your brother did this or that wrong in your name? Answer me, Vincent, what shall I say?'”