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SON TIOP I
385
Al Croubled Conscience.
By Lawrence B. Fletcher.
Of ,
ISTER PATRICIA pressed her lips
softly on the grated window of the
. confessional, and in a low and contrite
voice said: ‘Father, I am not quite cer-
tain whether I have sinned or not.
Sometimes, when I ask my conscience,
it says yes, at other times no; and, what
very singular, is that I suffer more
when my conscience says no ‘than
when it says yes.” This was too sub-
tle for the austere father confessor.
“Express yourself more plainly,
my daughter. And be careful to omit
nothing. You are so young! At
eighteen the conscience should not
be heavily burdened. Tell me every-
thing and confide in my judgment. God will give me
enlightenment. I am much concerned for you. Speak!”
“I will confess everything, father. On Monday,
just before midnight, ‘No. 7 in Ward 5 received the
last sacraments. The physician said that there was
no hope of recovery. The death agony would be brief,
he told me, and death would surely come before morn-
ing. ‘He will not suffer much,’ the physician added,
‘but if you think my presence necessary, call me with-
out hesitation. You need not bother about the other
patients; they will not need either you or me.’ The
doctor went to bed, and I resumed my seat at the
bedside. I had only to give the patient a spoonful of
medicine every half hour. During the rest of ‘the
time I was praying for the repose of his soul.”
“Whose soul?’
“The soul of the poor fellow who was dying.”
“It was a man, then?”
‘Did I not say, so father?”
“You spoke of No. 7, if I remember rightly, my
child, and numbers have no sex. Proceed.”
“No. 7 is a young soldier of the Irish Republic who
was wounded in a skirmish with the Sassenach troops
two days ago, and who has been secretly conveyed to
the convent hospital. He is very low. At 3 o’clock
‘he began to stammer, in a weak voice and with a rat-
‘tle in his throat. ‘It lasts so long, Sister!’ Since
midnight he had lain motionless, as if in deep sleep.
“Courage,. brother, courage,’ I whispered in his ear.
He continued, speaking slowly and trying to articu-
‘late distinctly:
“T am ready. It is hard to have to die at five and
‘twenty, but I am resigned to my fate. And perhaps
it is better so. I am poor and alone in the world. I
tried to free my native country from foreign domina-
tion and have received my death wound in the at-
tempt. It is well. I have nothing more to live for.
I wished to be a soldier; I am nothing.. I have never
known a Sister’s love. If you were not with me I
should be dying in solitude, as in a desert, for it
means risk of death or imprisonment to anyone
found associated with me.’
“He paused, and I'repeated: ~‘Courage, brother;
‘God is with you.’ A few minutes later I saw that his
deep blue eyes were filled with tears. Suddenly he
said:
“Will you do me a favor, Sister?’ ‘If it is in my
power, brother,’ I replied.
“He went on: ‘Do you wish me to die in perfect
peace, blessing my Creator?’
«So every good Christian should die,’ I answered—.
“Good!”’ said the father. ;
“The dying man continued, in pleading tones:
‘Help me to be one!’
“How, brother?’ I asked. ‘Help me to pass with-
out reluctance over the threshold of the fair house of
life which I must leave. Let me take with me into
the other life a memory of goodness. Sister, have
pity on a dying man. Give me—a kiss of peace!’
“A kiss?” :
“Again I said, ‘Courage, brother! Be ready to re-
ceive the kiss of God!’”
“Very good!” said the father.
“But, summoning all his forces, he implored: ‘Grant
me this favor! Do you not understand, Sister, that
my soul’s peace depends upon it? Do you wish to
suffer everlasting remorse? Do you desire my de-
struction, my damnation?’”
“And you? And you? What did you——”
“Father, his words frightened me so! I thought
that he might be damned forever if he died without
a token of goodness. I thought that I should be con-
sumed by remorse. I thought that death would surely
come before daybreak, and that each passing moment
was bringing the poor man a step nearer the grave.
In the stillness of the nignt I noted the growing op-
pression of his breathing. The few other patients in
the ward were asleep and motionless. The night
lamp gave but a feeble glimmer. In the gloom the
white beds looked like tombs. He was awaiting my
answer in silence. I felt deep compassion and sor-
row. I glanced around hastily, then I bent over him