She was now allowed to nurse her mother.  Two nuns came to her assistance, and said, not only to the rich widow but behind her back, that they had never seen so devoted and loving a daughter.  Even Bishop John, who did not shrink from entering the houses of the sick to give them spiritual consolation, praised Katharina’s conduct; and he, who had hitherto regarded the water-wagtail as no more than a bright, restless child, treated her with respect, talked to her as to a grown-up person, and answered her questions—­which for the most part referred to Paula—­ gravely and fully.

The prelate, who was full of admiration for Thomas’ daughter, told Katharina how, to save her lover, she had taken a crime upon herself which deprived her of every claim to mercy.  The Syrian girl was only a Melchite, but to take another’s guilt, out of love, was treading indeed in the footsteps of Christ, if ever anything was.  At this Katharina shrugged her shoulders, as though to say:  “Do you think so much of that?  Could not I gladly have done the same?”

The priest saw this and admonished her kindly to be on her guard against spiritual pride, though she had indeed earned the right to believe herself capable of the sternest devotion, and did not cease to set an example of filial and Christian love.

He departed; and Katharina, to whom every word in praise of her behavior to her mother, whom her sin had brought to her death-bed, was a torturing mockery, felt that she had deceived one more worthy soul.  She did not, to be sure, deserve to be charged with spiritual pride; for in this silent chamber, where death stood on the threshold, she thought over all the horrible things she had done, and told herself repeatedly that she was the chief and most vile of sinners.

Many times she felt impelled to confide in another soul, to invite a pitying eye to behold and share her inward suffering.

To the bishop above all, the most venerable priest she knew, she would most readily have confessed everything and have submitted to any penance, however severe, at his hands, but shame held her back; and even more did another more urgent consideration.  The prelate, she knew, would demand of her that she should forsake her old life, root out from her soul the old feelings and desires, and begin a new existence; but for this the time had not yet come:  her love was still an indispensable condition of life, and her hatred was even more dear to her.  When Paula’s terrible doom should indeed have overtaken her, and Katharina, her heart full of those old feelings, had gloated over it; when she should have been able to prove to Orion that her love was no less great and strong and self-sacrificing than that of Thomas’ daughter; when she should have compelled him—­as she would and must—­to acknowledge that he had cruelly misprized her and sinned against her; then, and not till then, would she make peace with herself, with the Church, and with her Saviour.