At last I rose to my feet and, lifting my head, looked
boldly up at the altar.
Just at that moment the young peeress, having finished her confession,
went off with a light step and a cheerful face. Her kneeling-place at
the confessional box was now vacant, yet I did not attempt to take it,
and some minutes passed in which I stood biting my lips to prevent a
cry. Then the priest parted his curtains and beckoned to me, and I moved
across and stood stubbornly by the perforated brass grating.
"Father," I said, as firmly as I could, for my throat was fluttering, "I
came here to make my confession, but something has come over me since I
entered this church, and now I cannot."
"What has come over you, my child?" asked the priest.
"I feel that what is said about God in a place like this, that He is a
kind and beneficent Father, who is just and merciful and pities the
sufferings of His children, is untrue. It is all wrong and false. _God
does not care_."
The priest did not answer me immediately, but after a moment of silence
he said in a quivering voice:
"My child, I feel just like that myself sometimes.
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