It was music echoing a discord. The key turned in the lock; the little lady of the swansdown cloak entered, and shut the door behind her. I cannot now conceive my feelings at that moment; but I had just presence of mind enough to recollect that I should be turned out if I did not sustain my part. We saluted each other in the usual way, and she knelt down before me. For the first time it darted through my mind that she was going to make a confession—and to me? A strong repugnance to hear overcame every other consideration. If I could mock that creature, I must be a fiend incarnate. Yet how, with safety to my friend—and to myself—prevent her? I took a step backward. She raised her eyes appealingly. I frowned and turned away.

‘This is some jest,’ I said sternly. ‘I was sent for to attend a deathbed. Take me to the penitent.’

‘It is I that am dying.’

‘Are you mad?’ I demanded. ‘Many a time have I seen death; never with eyes and cheeks like these.’

‘He that has not an hour to live is no nearer death than I am. I shall not see the sun rise to-morrow.’

She spoke with such conviction that I staggered back, reeling under the shock.

‘You are ill,’ she said solicitously, rising from her knees. ‘Holy Virgin, what shall I do? Help! help!’

I summoned all the strength of mind that I possessed.

‘Do not call, my daughter! It is only a passing weakness. The way hither is long. I am but lately recovered from a severe indisposition. Let me rest!’

Some excuse of this kind I think I made. Whatever it was, she accepted it, and stood watching me for a minute or two. Then, seeing that I was better, she said, with great gentleness:

‘It was not good to send you out on such a wild night as this. You should have stayed at home and slept. It grieved me so to see that I have made you ill. I did not think of this when I asked my father to send for a priest. I have hardly ever been allowed one, but you are very like some one that I have seen—I cannot feel as if you were a stranger. I could believe anything that you said—I know I could. Are you glad to think how greatly it comforts me to see you?’

‘I would give the remnant of my years, if that could be of any service to you,’ I said, striving not to say it too fervently.

She was quiet for a moment;—then, drawing a chair close to the sofa on which I had fallen back, she resumed.

‘I will not weary you with making a long confession. I think I can say what is on my mind better like this. I trust your face.’

She hesitated.

‘It is a dreadful thing. At first I thought I dared not say it to any one. It was wicked of me even to think it.’

She hid her face.

‘But you, you are older; you may not have very long to live either. Things look so different then. If you said it, I could believe it. I know I could.’

Once more she hesitated. The wind had risen again in all its fury, and was howling outside the window.