"That's not t-t-true. See here: I know exactly what's happened to you."
"What?"
"You began, as a boy, by turning to our Lord with all the love of which your heart was capable. You vowed to be His lover. And He weighed you, looked you through and through, and accepted you. Step by step He led you on. He showed you new things about Himself as you were ready to bear them. He trusted you. He never left you. And now at last, He has shown you Himself in His Church. You know He's there. I believe, in your heart of hearts, you have faith. And you hang back because you are afraid. You ought to be a Catholic. You ought to be a religious, a R-Redemptorist, I think. You're stamped and marked out for it. There! I've never said as much to anyone. God help you."
He ended abruptly, utterly earnest, and stared at the fire, stretching a hand out to it.
"I shall break my father's heart. How can I?" cried Paul, all the bitter agony of days at home and hours of prayer, sweeping down upon him.
The priest made a gesture. "Excuses. You know that too. 'He that loveth father or mother more than Me...' And would you break His heart?"
"It's so cruel, so awfully hard."
"Of course it's cruel. Wasn't the Cross cruel? Do you think Christianity is a d-drawing-room g-game? It's fire. It's a sword. It's death or life. Good Lord, what else has it been from the first martyr to the last, yesterday? And you k-k-know it."
"It's more than I can bear," the boy burst out.
"It's n-n-not," stuttered the priest instantly. "Our Lord never offers anyone a heavier cross than he can b-b-bear."