They are small tabernacles of carved wood, with a closet for the priest in the centre; and, on either side, a space for a penitent to kneel, and breathe his confession through a perforated auricle into the good father's ear.

Observing this arrangement, though already familiar to her, our poor Hilda was anew impressed with the infinite convenience--if we may use so poor a phrase--of the Catholic religion to its devout believers.
Who, in truth, that considers the matter, can resist a similar impression! In the hottest fever-fit of life, they can always find, ready for their need, a cool, quiet, beautiful place of worship.

They may enter its sacred precincts at any hour, leaving the fret and trouble of the world behind them, and purifying themselves with a touch of holy water at the threshold.

In the calm interior, fragrant of rich and soothing incense, they may hold converse with some saint, their awful, kindly friend.

And, most precious privilege of all, whatever perplexity, sorrow, guilt, may weigh upon their souls, they can fling down the dark burden at the foot of the cross, and go forth--to sin no more, nor be any longer disquieted; but to live again in the freshness and elasticity of innocence.
"Do not these inestimable advantages," thought Hilda, "or some of them at least, belong to Christianity itself?
Are they not a part of the blessings which the system was meant to bestow upon mankind?
Can the faith in which I was born and bred be perfect, if it leave a weak girl like me to wander, desolate, with this great trouble crushing me down ?" A poignant anguish thrilled within her breast; it was like a thing that had life, and was struggling to get out.
"O help! O help!" cried Hilda; "I cannot, cannot bear it!" Only by the reverberations that followed--arch echoing the sound to arch, and a pope of bronze repeating it to a pope of marble, as each sat enthroned over his tomb--did Hilda become aware that she had really spoken above her breath.