I said I was perishing for a word of advice or an accent of comfort. I had been living for some weeks quite alone; I had been ill; I had a pressure of affliction on my mind of which it would hardly any longer endure the weight.

“Was it a sin, a crime?” he inquired, somewhat startled. I reassured him on this point, and, as well as I could, I showed him the mere outline of my experience.

He looked thoughtful, surprised, puzzled. “You take me unawares,” said he. “I have not had such a case as yours before: ordinarily we know our routine, and are prepared; but this makes a great break in the common course of confession. I am hardly furnished with counsel fitting the circumstances.”

Of course, I had not expected he would be; but the mere relief of communication in an ear which was human and sentient, yet consecrated⁠—the mere pouring out of some portion of long accumulating, long pent-up pain into a vessel whence it could not be again diffused⁠—had done me good. I was already solaced.