“But, Denis, surely if you think yourself not worthy to enter that blessed state, you have time enough to avoid it.”

“Ay, but, Susy, there is the difficulty.  I am now so placed that I can hardly go back.  First, the disgrace of refusing to enter the Church would lie upon me as if I had committed a crime.  Again, I would break my father’s and my mother’s heart:  and rather than do that, I could almost submit to be miserable for life.  And finally, I could not live in the family, nor bear the indignation of my brothers and other relations.  You know, Susan, as well as I do, the character attached to those who put their friends to the expense of educating them for the Church, who raise their hopes and their ambition, and afterwards disappoint them.”

“I know it.”

“This, Susan, dear, prevails with me.  Besides, the Church now is likely to rise from her ruins.  I believe that if a priest did his duty, he might possibly possess miraculous power.  There is great pomp and splendor in her ceremonies, a sense of high and boundless authority in her pastors; there is rank in her orders sufficient even for ambition.  Then the deference, the awe, and the humility with which they are approached by the people—­ah!  Susan, there is much still in the character of a priest for the human heart to covet.  The power of saying mass, of forgiving sin, of relieving the departed spirits of the faithful in another world, and of mingling in our holy sacrifices, with the glorious worship of the cherubims, or angels, in heaven—­all this is the privilege of a priest, and what earthly rank can be compared to it?”

“None at all, Denis—­none at all.  Oh, think this way still, and let no earthly temptation—­no—­don’t let—­even me—­what am I?—­a poor humble girl—­oh! no, let nothing keep you back from this.”

The tears burst from her eyes, however, as she spoke.

“But, Denis,” she added, “there is one thing that turns my brain.  I fear that, even afther your ordination, I couldn’t look upon you as I would upon another man.  Oh, my heart would break if one improper thought of it was fixed upon you then.”

“Susy, hear me.  I could give up all, but you.  I could bear to disappoint father, mother, and all; but the thought of giving you up for ever is terrible.  I have been latterly in a kind of dream.  I have been among friends and relatives until my brain was turned; but now I am restored to myself, and I find I cannot part with you.  I would gladly do it; but I cannot.  Oh, no, Susan, dear, my love for you was dimmed by other passions; but it was not extinguished.  It now burns stronger and purer in my heart than ever.  It does—­it does.  And, Susan, I always loved you.”

Susan paused for some time, and unconsciously plucked a wild flower which grew beside her:  she surveyed it a moment, and exclaimed:—­

“Do you see this flower, Denis? it’s a faded primrose.  I’m like that flower in one sense; I’m faded; my heart’s broke.”