"I shall certainly go, my dear child—meanwhile, pray for me," said Father Fabian, as she rose up from receiving his blessing.

"Will you pray for my uncle's conversion, father? and, oh! I had almost forgotten! My cousin has arrived; shall I bring her to see you soon?" said May, standing at the door.

"Whenever you please to;" and May went away, feeling quite happy.

Mr. Stillinghast had not forgotten May's refusal to explain the cause of her appearance, the day before, on the wharf; and being determined to discover it, he stopped, on his way down to his counting-house, at the wood-yard office, and inquired "if a young lady had been in there to purchase wood yesterday?"

"Well, sir, I hardly know how to reply to your question;—but I believe there were several young ladies in here to buy wood yesterday," said the young man, looking highly amused.

"But there was one who came with old Copeland; she had on a purple merino dress—and—something, I don't know what else she had on," said Mr. Stillinghast, feeling ridiculous.

"Was she very small, sir, with bright hazel eyes?"

"I know nothing about the color of her eyes, but she's something higher than my walking stick," replied the irascible old man.

"The same, sir. She came with Mr. Copeland; and if her eyes didn't make me dance in and out, it's a wonder!" observed the clerk.

"Well, what in the deuce did she want here?"

"She bought a quarter of a cord of oak wood, and paid for it!"

"What did she want with oak wood?" cried Mr. Stillinghast, becoming more impatient every moment.

"To burn, I presume," replied the young man, paring off a chew of tobacco; "but the fact is, sir, we didn't ask her. We always take it for granted that people buy wood to burn."

"Who does know any thing about it?" was the sharp response.

"The sawyer, I fancy, if he can be found. I have not seen him about to-day, however," said the young man, with a broad grin, which he speedily changed, when his strange visitor burst out with,

"When he comes, send him to me.—My name is Stillinghast."

"Certainly, Mr. Stillinghast, certainly. Excuse me, sir, for not recognizing you," stammered the clerk.

"I'm determined," muttered the old man, going out and slamming to the door, without noticing the young man's apologies, "I'm determined to sift this matter. If I had a feeling of humanity left, it was for that girl—papist though she be; if I loved or cared a tithe for any living being, it was she! I intended—but never mind what I intended. She has been doing wrong and I'll find it out. She has tried to deceive me, but I'll convince her that she has mistaken her dupe. Where did she get the money to buy wood with?" And at that thought, such a fierce, sudden suspicion tore through that old, half ossified heart, that he paused on the flags, and gasped for breath. "My God!" he murmured, "has she robbed me?" And during the remainder of that miserable day, his ledgers were almost neglected. Foul and ungenerous suspicion held possession of his mind; and inflamed with a malicious anger, he plotted and schemed his revenge until he had defined a plan that well suited his present mood. "If she plots," he muttered, rubbing his dry, yellow hands together, with grim delight, "I will counter-plot. It is not the wrong, but the person who inflicts it, that stings me. But the serpent's tooth has been gnawing these many years at my heart—why complain now?"

But several days passed, and he had obtained no clue to the mystery, which increased his anxiety, and made him more fretful and testy than usual. He allowed no opportunity to escape, to make May feel his displeasure. Bitter and contemptuous speeches, coarse allusions to her religion, fault-finding with all she did, and sudden outbursts of unprovoked fury, were now the daily trials of her life. Trials which were sore temptations, and full of humiliation to a proud, high spirit, like May's; and sharp were the struggles, and earnest the prayers, and many the scalding tears she shed, ere she subdued the storm of wild and indignant resentment, which swept like whirlwinds through her soul. But her talisman—the Cross of Jesus Christ—was her safeguard. Its splinters inflicted many a sharp wound; but none so sharp, that the balm it distilled could not heal and beautify them.

Helen, in a fright, kept as much as possible out of sight. Towards her, Mr. Stillinghast's manner was inconsistent, and variable in the extreme. At one time almost kind, at another, captious and surly. Sometimes he called on her for every thing, and perhaps the next moment threatened to throw whatever he had ordered, at her head. Once he told her, in bitter tones and language, that "but for wishing to make use of her to effect certain ends, he would turn her into the street." He had a new lock and key, of a peculiar construction, fitted on his chamber door, which he locked every morning carefully, and carried the key away with him.

"This is awful, May. How can you bear it as you do, for you do not seem the least afraid of him?" said Helen, one morning.

"I am afraid of offending our Lord by spitefulness, and returning injuries to one who is my benefactor," replied May.

"You do feel spiteful, then, sometimes? Really, it is quite refreshing to know that you are not perfect," said Helen, in her sneering way.

"Yes I feel so very often. I am full of imperfections. I am not patient, or humble, or even forgiving. I am only outwardly—outwardly calm and silent, because I do not think it right to fan up resentments, and malice, and bitterness, all so antagonistic to the love of God. I hope! oh, I hope my motive is, singly and purely to avoid offending Him," said May, humbly and earnestly.

"I heartily wish the old wretch would die!" exclaimed Helen.

"Oh, Helen! so unprovided as he is for another world! Unsay that, won't you?" cried May, clasping her hands together.

"No, May; I mean it. I think he is as much fit to die now as he ever will be. He has doubtless spent his life in tormenting others, and it will only be fair when he is tormented in his turn. But, spare those looks of horror, and tell me, who do you think passed by here this morning, and looked in, and bowed?"

"I cannot tell," said May, sadly.

"That handsome Jerrold. I hope he may prove a knight-errant, and deliver me from Giant Despair's castle," said the frivolous girl, while she twisted her long, shining curls around her fingers.

"Take care, Helen. Romance does very well in books, but it is a mischievous thing to mix up in the real concerns of life."

"My dearest May, I shall never want a skull to grin ghastly lessons of morality at me, while I have you," replied Helen, with a scornful laugh.

"Pardon me, Helen; I fear that I do say too much; but let my good intention be my excuse," said May.

"Yes, it is intolerable. My old Tartar of an uncle swearing and scolding down stairs, and you preaching and praying, up. It is more than human nature can bear.—Where are you going?"

"To confession," replied May, in a low tone.

"Very well; but, my dear 'wee wee woman,' don't stay long, for I believe this rambling, musty old house is haunted."

"Come with me, then?"

"Not to-day; I have an idea of exploring it, and should like, of all things, to get into the very room which Blue Beard keeps locked up. Is there any possible way of getting in?"

"Yes."

"How? tell me, quick!"

"Ask Uncle Stillinghast for the key," said May, while a flash of merriment lit up her eyes.

"Excuse me, ma'am," said Helen, curtseying:

"I leave all such exploits to people who are anxious to become martyrs. I have no such ambition."



CHAPTER VIII.

TROUBLED WATERS.

"Where are you gadding to now?" said Mr. Stillinghast, who had encountered May and Helen at the hall-door, on their way out to church. "Where are you both going?"

"We are going to mass, sir," said May, in her usual quiet, pleasant way.

"One of you stay in. I won't have the house left so; do you stay, for you are for ever gadding," he said sharply to May.

"I will remain at home, Uncle Stillinghast," said Helen, quickly; "do you go, May."

"Do you go, miss, and let her stay at home; d'ye hear me?" he exclaimed.

"Indeed, sir, I wish to remain at home. I have no desire at all to go this morning," expostulated Helen.

"Ar'n't you a papist?" he inquired, turning suddenly, and confronting her.

"I am a Catholic, sir, but—but," she stammered.

"But what?" he asked, sharply.

"I do not care so much about going to church as May does," she replied, lifting her handsome brown eyes to his angry countenance.

"Oh, Helen!" exclaimed May, with an imploring look.

"This is quite my affair," said Helen, with a haughty air.

"You've got more sense than I gave you credit for," said Mr. Stillinghast, with a low, peculiar laugh. "Don't go any more unless you choose."

"No, sir."

"Oh, uncle!" cried May, losing all dread of her uncle's displeasure, and laying her hand on his arm; "you are tampering with her soul! Helen! Helen, you are trampling under foot your birthright in the Church of Christ!"

"Fool!" exclaimed Mr. Stillinghast, shaking her off. "Be silent. Go your ways, but dare not interfere with her."

"I can only pray, sir, for you and for her," said May, after her first wild and indignant emotions had subsided.

Another low mocking laugh sounded in her ears, then she found herself alone. "This is dreadful, and hard to bear," she murmured, as she went out; "but Father Fabian says, that trials are divine and royal gifts! If I lived only for this life I would never—I could not bear it, but living for eternity, I cannot afford to lose a single lesson of the rudiments of perfection."

"That girl," thought Mr. Stillinghast, "is a mystery. She is either a profound hypocrite, or an honest Christian. This scene, however, has fixed my resolves. That Helen may be a fool, but she's not much of a papist. Odds, it will hardly require the temptation of a handsome husband, and a splendid settlement, to make her forswear her creed. I will see Jerrold this very day." When he arrived at his counting-house, he went directly to his desk, and penned a note, which he directed and sealed, then handed it to his porter to take to Mr. Jerrold. Then he perched himself on his high writing-stool, and opening his books, attempted to go on as usual with the business of the day. But there was something unquiet tugging at his conscience, which did not allow him to do so. He paused frequently, with his pen poised over his inkstand, or paper, and fell into reveries, which ended with expressions which burst out like shots from a revolver. It was now "Pshaw!" then, "I hate it worse than I do the synagogue;" or, "it is not injustice! Have I not a right to do as I please with my own property?" and "I'll do it as sure as my name is Mark Stillinghast."

"Mr. Jerrold was away at bank, sir," said the porter, who had returned; "and, sir, I left the note."

"All right, Michael. Business is the master we must serve first, and best. Hoist out those bales there ready to ship."

"The devil 'll fly away wid that ould haythen some of these days! I should like to know intirely if he ever hard of the day of judgment and the Master that's to take an account of how he's been sarved. I reckon, bedad, he'll find out thin, if not sooner, that he's the one that ought to had a little waitin' on," muttered Michael, rolling out a heavy bale of cotton.

Ere long Mr. Jerrold, anxious to conciliate the millionnaire, and full of curiosity, did not lose a minute after he read the note in going to him.

"Good morning sir. I hope I have not kept you waiting," he said, holding out his hand to Mr. Stillinghast.

"No, sir; you are in very good time," he replied, shaking hands, and offering his guest a chair. "I see that you are not one who will let grass grow under your feet."

"I have my fortune to make, sir," replied the young man, laughing; "but can I serve you in any way, Mr. Stillinghast?"

"Michael! No, sir—no— Here Michael!" cried Mr. Stillinghast.

"Here, sir," answered the porter at the door.

"I wish to have a private conversation with this gentleman, and do not want to be interrupted; do you hear?"

"Bedad, sir, I'm not deaf no more than the next one; but suppose somebody comes to pay up rents, et cetera?"

"Well—well, they can wait," he replied.

"And supposin' they won't?" persisted Michael.

"In that case, rap at my door, and I will come out. Now, be off."

"I never waste time, Mr. Jerrold," said Mr. Stillinghast, after he had closed the door, and resumed his seat; "I never waste any thing—time or words. I am blunt and candid, and aboveboard. I hate the world generally, because I have been deceived in every thing I ever placed faith in. I am a bitter, harsh, penurious old man."

"Your life has been without reproach, sir," observed Mr. Jerrold, who wondered what strange revelation was to be made.

"No compliments; they nauseate me. I sent for you this morning to propose something which you may, or may not, accede to, there being a condition annexed that may not be altogether agreeable. But however it may be, I wish you to understand distinctly that I do it to suit my own ends and pleasure, and if I could do otherwise I would."

"I am very confident, sir, that you will not propose any thing to me incompatible with honor and integrity," said Walter Jerrold.

"No, sir. No; it is a fair bargain—a fair, honest, business transaction I offer, by which you will gain not only credit, but profit. In view of this object, I have been for two days engaged in an investigation of your character."

"Really, Mr. Stillinghast!" began the young man, with a haughty look.

"Investigating your character, sir. I have made inquiries of your friends and foes concerning your habits, your business associations, your antecedents—"

"For what purpose, sir?" inquired Walter Jerrold, flushing up.

"To see if I might trust you."

"And the result of this strange procedure?"

"Is favorable throughout. I congratulate you, sir, on being without reproach in your business relations. You will suit me to a nicety. I lost two years ago the old man who sat at this desk for the last forty years. He was the only friend I had in the wide earth. He was my prop and support, and now that he is gone, I feel tottering and weak. I want some one to assist me in the cares of my immense business; a partner, young, active, and possessed of just the requisites which you have."

Walter Jerrold's eyes lit up with an expression of wild triumph. He could scarcely believe his own ears; he thought it was a cheating dream that the millionnaire, Stillinghast—the bitter, inaccessible old man, should offer him something so far beyond his most sanguine hopes; advantages which he had intended to intrigue, and toil unceasingly for, but which were now thrown into his very hands.

"Do you understand me, Mr. Jerrold?"

"I hear you, sir, but really fear you are jesting at my expense."

"I never jest, sir. It has been so long since I jested that the word has become meaningless to me. But, as I said, there is a condition—"

"Allow me to hear it, Mr. Stillinghast," said Walter Jerrold, fearing at least it might be something dreadful and impossible.

"I have," said the old man, as if talking to himself, "I have gathered together large sums. I scarcely know the exact amount myself. There is principal, interest, and compound interest, still heaping up the pile. I do not intend it shall be squabbled over when I am in the dust, or left open to the rapacity of lawyers. I shall dispose of my concerns while I have reason and health, in such a way, by Heaven! as Heaven itself cannot interfere with my plans!"

Why did not that boastful, gold-withered, shrivelled up old man, pause? How dare he throw such defiance in the face of Almighty God over his unrighteous gains!—yes, unrighteous gains, for mammon held them in trust. None had ever gone into the treasure-house of God to relieve the suffering, or aid the indignant. The few good acts of his life had been wrested from him, and the recollection of them filled him with bitterness instead of joy.

"That is wise and prudent, sir," observed Mr. Jerrold.

"Of course it is. But now to the point. I will take you into partnership on condition that you, as my successor, marry my niece, Helen Stillinghast, and promise on your honor to endeavor to overcome her Catholic tendencies. She is not very strong in her faith, but as I intend to leave her a considerable amount of property, I do not wish it to go to the support of a creed I detest—not one copper of it. What do you say?"

"What amount of capital do you require, Mr. Stillinghast?"

"Whatever you have, sir. If it is much, well; if nothing, it makes no difference: but, do you hesitate? I suppose the girl is an obstacle."

"None in the least, sir. But I am overwhelmed by your generosity, sir; the advantages you offer place me in a position which it would have taken me years of toil to attain, and I must confess, that I am quite thrown off my balance. Will you allow me at least a few hours to think?" said Walter Jerrold, highly excited.

"Your caution is no discredit to you. I see that I am not deceived," said Mr. Stillinghast, with a grim smile. "To-morrow evening I shall expect an answer; at which time you can come to my house, and take your tea, and look at my niece."

"You will certainly see me then, sir, and hear my decision." And the young man, with steps that scarcely felt the earth he trod on, hurried away, nor paused an instant, until he reached home. Mrs. Jerrold was standing on her marble carriage-step, just ready to get into her luxurious coach to take a drive. He whispered a word or two to her; the carriage was dismissed, and mother and son went up stairs to analyze the sudden promise of fortune which had burst, like the bow of heaven, around them. And together we will leave them—the worldly mother and the worldly son, to grow elate, and almost wild, at the prospect which Mr. Stillinghast's eccentric liberality had opened to their view. At any rate, it was eligible in every respect, with, or without a matrimonial appendage; and Cedar Hall was secured to the Jerrolds.

Father Fabian, true to his promise, had visited old Mabel, and found her so well disposed, and of such docile faith, that he had promised, as soon as he finished her general confession, to give her holy baptism. Two or three times a week he dropped in, and was much edified by the fervor and humility with which she received his instructions. It all seemed like a new world dawning around her, as if through the chinks of her lowly dwelling bright visions of heaven stole in to gladen her, while her soul in its humble love traversed back and forth with angel messengers. May had not seen her for some days, and now went to take her money to pay the rent of her poor cottage, and purchase a supply of provisions. Mrs. Tabb had disposed of her fancy knitting, and sent her son early that morning with the proceeds, some six or seven dollars, to May. Rejoicing in the power to do good, and leaving all her vexations and trials at home, she sought old Mabel's lowly dwelling, to impart and receive consolation.

"That's Miss May! Here, Nellie, fetch that stool over thar for Miss May," exclaimed the old woman, as soon as the door opened. "How is you, honey?"

"I am quite well, Aunt Mabel. I think you are looking better," replied May, sitting down beside her.

"Oh, honey, it's blessed times with me now. I bin blind all my life; I never see nuffin till now. Ah, honey, that good priest you send me aint like the buckra parsons I used to know. He aint too proud to sit down by a poor nigger, an' take her lame hand in his'n, and rub it with some sort of liniment he fotch. And thar's a bottle of wine he left 'cause the doctor said I must have some. He don't stand off as if he was afeard I would pizen him, and fling the gospel at me like stingy people throws bones to dogs. He makes me feel that I'm a child of God as well as white folks, by treating me like one, honey."

"I'm very glad, Aunt Mabel, that you are comforted by Father Fabian's visits," said May, smiling at her unsophisticated statement.

"Yes, he comforts me mightily, Miss May; and he talk so simple and beautiful, that I understand every word he says."

"What does Father Fabian tell you, Aunt Mabel?"

"He read one thing to me out of my ole Bible thar. You know I can't read myself, Miss May, but I keep it 'cause it belonged to my missis. He asked me if I ever been baptized?' I told him, 'No, sir.' Then he ask me how I knew, and I tell him that too. Then he read what Jesus Christ said, 'Unless you be born again, of water and the Holy Ghost, you shall not enter the kingdom of heaven;' and, honey, it was enough, for me to know he said it. And then he told me about the power our Lord left with his Church to forgive sins, and I didn't dar doubt it, 'cause who can be so presumptuous as to contradict Jesus Christ when he lays down the way and the truth? But oh, Miss May, when the day comes for me to receive in my ole heart the dear Lord hisself—my poor ole tired, aching heart—then I lived long enough, 'cause the glory of God will be with me."

"It will be a most happy day, Aunt Mabel," said May, dashing a tear from her cheek. "Now tell me something about our Immaculate Mother. Do you ever think of her?"

"Oh, Miss May! how can I think of Jesus Christ—how can I love him, without thinking of, and loving her? If I go down to the manger, thar she is, watching over him, or holding him on her bosom; if I go through Salem's marble city, honey, thar she is, close by her divine Son; if I go to Calvary, what do I see?" said old Mabel, lifting her shrivelled hand, and dim eyes to heaven, while tears flowed over her swarthy cheeks; "I see the Son of God, and the Son of Mary—Jesus Christ, hanging on the rough wood; his head, his hands, his feet, his side, dropping blood from the torn flesh. I see him dying for me; and down at his feet, his mother suffering with him. Ah, honey, it was a heavy burden she bore that dark day! The suffering of her son—her own pangs—the sins of the world, for which both suffered, as it 'pears to me, was too much for one human heart. Oh, don't any body talk to me 'bout not loving the Blessed Virgin! With one breath, I say, 'Have mercy on me, sweet Jesus!' with the other, I say, 'Pray for me, Virgin mother, without sin!' It's the last thing I say at night, and the first I say in the morning."

"But you don't worship the Blessed Virgin, Aunt Mabel?" said May, with a smile.

"Worship her, honey? No! but God honored and loved her. SHE was the mother of the dear Jesus; the 'mount of her sufferings was for him and us, and I love her—I honor her, and I go to her like a little child, and ask her to pray for me, and ask Him, who never refused her any thing, for what I want."

"She is a tender friend—the refuge of sinners—the health of the weak—the help of Christians!" said May, astonished at old Mabel's language; "and I am glad you have recourse to her. She will lead you along until all is well with you. Shall I read to you now? Father Fabian requested me to read over the catechism to you. To-day I will read the instructions on Confession and Baptism."

"I can't hear too much, Miss May," said the old woman, leaning forward to listen, with an eager and anxious expression. May read, and explained, until she heard the cathedral bell toll the Angelus. It was time for her to go; so kneeling down, she said with heartfelt devotion the beautiful prayer, which celebrates so worthily and continually the wondrous mystery of the Incarnation. After which she left her purse with old Mabel, containing the amount of her rent, which would be due the next day, and promising to send her tea, sugar, and other necessaries, called little Nellie in, and telling her to sit with her grandmother, hurried away with a lighter heart than when she came out. She made her purchases on her way home, and left directions where they were to be sent. After assuring herself that there would be no mistake, and obtaining a promise from the clerk who weighed the groceries that they should be delivered in the course of an hour, she proceeded homewards. She found Helen haughty and silent, evidently determined to avoid all conversation on the event of the morning. Two or three times May endeavored to expostulate with her, but found herself rudely repulsed.

That night, when Mr. Stillinghast came in, Helen officiously placed his chair in its usual corner, and handed him his slippers. May made two or three observations to him in her own cheerful way, but he barely replied, and desired her not to interrupt him again. Her heart swelled, and her cheeks flushed, but she remembered the aim of her life, and was silent.

"Do you play on the piano?" said Mr. Stillinghast, abruptly, to Helen.

"No, sir; I play on the harp," she replied, amazed.

"Do you play well?"

"My master thought so, sir."

"I will order one for you to-morrow. I expect company to tea to-morrow evening, so put on any fandangos you have got."

"Yes, sir," she replied, while her face sparkled with delight; "I can never thank you, sir."

"I don't want you to, so be quiet, and do as I bid you," he replied, roughly.

"Poor Helen!" thought May; "poor—poor Helen! 'they seek after her soul,' and she, oh, weak one! how will she resist without the sacraments?"

After Mr. Stillinghast retired, and they were left alone, Helen again opened a French novel to resume her reading, without exchanging a word with her cousin. Thoughts and emotions were flooding May's soul with impulses she dared not resist. She must warn her. She must stretch out her arm, weak though it was, to save her.

"Helen! dear Helen, listen to me!" she said, kneeling before her, and throwing an arm around her neck, while she laid her hand on her cousin's. Helen, astonished, dropped her book, and remained passive, while May besought her by her hopes of heaven to accompany her the next morning to confession, or go alone, as both could not leave home together; then set before her in eloquent and soul-touching language the peril into which her prevarications were leading her.

"You are mad, May.—decidedly mad; I intend to better my condition if I can, and be a Catholic too. I am only conciliating this crusty old wretch, who has us both in his power; then, you know, we may bring him around after awhile," she said, carelessly.

"Oh, Helen! we cannot serve two masters, even for a season; nor can we handle pitch without becoming defiled. Believe me, this kind of conciliation, as it is called, is fraught with evil," said May, earnestly.

"You are right about the pitch, May. He is truly as disagreeable as pitch; but, indeed, I will endeavor to handle him with gloves on," said Helen, laughing; "and I won't go to confession until I am ready."

"I alluded to my uncle's opinions and principles, for, Helen, he is an unbeliever!" said May, sighing, as she turned away to go up to bed.

"Don't make any more scenes, little dear; really, you startle one almost into spasms," continued the heartless and beautiful one. "I have a very strong, high spirit, and a will; no iron or rock is harder."

"Be warned, Helen! I have a will, too, and shall not cease to admonish you—to warn you—to pray for you, until life ceases."

"Pshaw! you are a fanatic. Good night, my dear."



CHAPTER IX.

TRIALS.

When May awoke the next morning at her usual hour, she discovered, to her great surprise, that Helen was up and dressed; but how occupied she could not conceive, until rising, she saw her sitting beside her open trunk, with a lighted candle on a chair near her, looking over various ornaments and articles of dress which it contained. With a small hand-glass she tried the effect of jet and pearls in her ears; of black velvet, or satin rosettes, in her soft wavy brown hair; of white crape and illusion on her throat and wrists—glancing all the time with an expression of pleased triumph at the reflection on her faultlessly beautiful face.

"Thank God, I am not beautiful," thought May, without a dash of envy. "I might—yes, I am so weak—I might worship myself instead of God." But she said nothing, and performed her morning devotions, and made her meditations as usual; then dressed quickly and neatly, and asked Helen if she was ready to go down.

"I declare, May, you are a perfect little mouse. I did not know you were up. Yes; I am ready now. I had quite forgotten that it was my morning to make breakfast," she replied, returning the things to the trunk without the least possible hurry.

"If you have any thing else to do, dear Helen; I mean—if—you have not said your prayers yet, I will go down and get things in train for you," said May, timidly.

"Thank you, May, but I keep my own conscience. I have no time for my prayers now—after breakfast will do," she replied, carelessly.

"Dear Helen, consider—"

"Dear May, I won't consider," she interrupted her, "for I am in such a ferment of delight, what with the idea of company, and having a harp once more, I am really half wild, and could not pray for the life of me—at least, as people ought to pray. Oh, what different times we shall have! Really, May, I have an idea that I shall have our old savage dancing the Tarantula before to-morrow night," she exclaimed, almost shrieking with laughter.

"Helen," began May, but checked herself, and burst into tears, which she endeavored to conceal—such tears as angels shed over the derelictions of the souls they are appointed to guard. Helen did not observe them; giddy and selfish, she derived amusement from that which was luring her soul further away from God; and, while May wept over her peril, she thought only of the transient and fleeting enjoyments of the present. Gayly humming the Tarantula, she ran down to the kitchen, where she got breakfast, or, rather claimed the reputation of getting it, by assisting May, who was really the practical cause of its being made at all tolerably.

"What sort of gimcracks must one have for supper? I have invited a friend with whom I have business relations of some importance, to tea, and I wish to know what is usual," said Mr. Stillinghast, addressing Helen, after breakfast.

"I don't know, sir," she said, looking down, with the half-frightened expression her face always wore when he addressed her; "people generally have cake, and other nice things."

"Very well, make a supper to suit yourself," said Mr. Stillinghast, tossing her a five dollar note.

"We ought to have silver forks, sir," she suggested.

"Silver devils! well, wait—" He went up to his chamber, and returned with a package, which he laid carefully on the table, saying, "There they are—be careful with them," and went out without noticing May even by a look, who felt the neglect more keenly than any trial he had ever caused her. To find that Helen, who hated as much as she feared him—whose life was so aimless and useless—preferred before her, caused sharp and bitter emotions. The flagrant injustice of his treatment galled, as much as his unmerited contempt humiliated her. For a little while her feelings bore her along on their rough but silent torrent, while the hot winds of evil heated her veins with fire, and caused a hot flush to burn on either cheek. Ho! how exulted the tempter now; he had long laid in wait for her soul, and now, while it oscillated and wavered, how triumphant he was; how defiantly he lifted his lurid brow towards the Almighty, while he spread out the snare for that tempted, trembling one! but let us listen—for angels guard her, and watch, with sorrowful eyes, the dread conflict, while they pray for heavenly strength to sustain her—let us listen to the words which go up from that heart, so stilly and whispered that they scarcely reach our ears, while in Heaven they ring out clear, and sweet, and sorrowful,—"Sweet Jesus! merciful Jesus! suffering, calumniated dying Jesus, pity me—rescue me," she murmured, folding her cold hands together. Far away fled the powers of darkness, and left only the sweetness and peace of that potent deliverer, JESUS, in her soul. Once more the angels of her life looked up rejoicing, and spread their wings of light about her way. Without, there had been an exterior calm; but it was like that gray, sad stillness, which mantles the storm. Now there was sunshine as well as calm.

"What shall I do, May?" said Helen, who had been reading the paper.

"We must try and make a nice supper, as my uncle wishes, Helen. I will make waffles and tea-biscuits, if you wish it, and we can order cake from Delaro's. I think this, with chipped ham, tea, and coffee, will be sufficient."

"Thank you, May. I am so ignorant; if you will only do it all for me, I shall be so obliged to you. You know I shall have to dress, and it takes me so long to arrange my hair gracefully. I wish, sometimes, that I had none—it is so troublesome," said the selfish girl.

"Yes," said May, after a little while, "I will attend to it. My dress is such an every day affair, that I shall be able to have every thing ready, to take the head of the table in time."

"The head of the table! I rather expect Mr. Stillinghast intends me to preside."

"Possibly. If my uncle wishes it, Helen, I will certainly resign it to you; but, as I have always sat there, I shall continue to do so until he requests me to do otherwise," said May, with becoming firmness.

"Oh, of course! It is quite indifferent to me, my dear;—but what have we here?" said Helen, taking up the bundle which Mr. Stillinghast had laid on the table. "See, May, what splendidly chased silver forks! How heavy they are; and see! here is a crest on them."

"They are very old, I presume," said May, examining them with interest.

"As old as the hills! Where on earth has the old curmudgeon kept them all this time?" exclaimed Helen. "Do you think he bought, or inherited them?"

"Inherited them, doubtless. My mother had the same crest on her silver. Our grandfather was an Englishman of good lineage; but see, Helen, they require a good cleansing and rubbing. I will go to mass now, after which I will attend to your commissions. While I am out, you had better get down the old china, which you will find on that closet shelf, with some cut glass goblets. You can wash them up with the breakfast things; or, if you would rather wait until I return, I will assist you," said May.

"Oh, no! I like such work; but, May, could we not hunt up your old maummy, if she is not too old, to come and wait?" asked Helen.

"She died two years ago, Helen," said May, turning away her head with a quivering lip.

"How unfortunate! But, May, have you any fine table linen?"

"Yes; a number of fine damask tablecloths."

"And napkins?"

"None."

"Thank fortune, I have some four dozen East India napkins; they will look quite splendid on the table this evening. But hurry on, May, I wish to clear up to make room for my harp; I expect it every moment."

That evening, if Mr. Stillinghast had looked around him, he would scarcely have recognized the sitting-room as the one he had left in the morning. The round table, just large enough to seat four comfortably, was elegantly spread with fine white damask, and crimson and old gold china, of an antique and elegant pattern; sparkling cut glass, and silver. Two wax candles burned in the old-fashioned silver candelabras in the centre, on each side of which stood two clusters of geranium leaves and winter roses, arranged in small rich vases. The grate looked resplendent, and a harp, of a magnificent pattern, heavily carved and gilded, stood in a conspicuous place. Helen looked exquisitely lovely. Her dress was the perfection of good taste, and well did its elaborate simplicity suit her style of beauty. A single white rose, and a few geranium leaves in her hair, with a pearl and jet brooch, which fastened the velvet around her throat, were the only ornaments she wore. But Mr. Stillinghast came in growling and lowering as usual, and without noticing any one, or any thing, threw himself in his arm-chair, which May had taken care should be in its place; drew off his boots, and replaced them with the soft warm slippers she had worked for him some months before; then called for the evening paper, and was soon immersed in the news from Europe, and the rise and fall of stocks. About a quarter of an hour afterwards the front door-bell rung, and May, who happened to be in the hall, went to admit the visitor, who was no other than Mr. Jerrold. He bowed courteously, and "presumed he had the pleasure of speaking to Miss Stillinghast?"

"My name is May Brooke," said May, with one of her clear smiles.

"And mine is Jerrold—Walter Jerrold; not so harmonious as yours, certainly!" he replied, throwing off the large Spanish cloak which was folded gracefully around him.

"Life would be a sad monotone if every thing in creation resembled each other; there would be no harmony. But walk in, Mr. Jerrold, my uncle expects you," said May, throwing open the door.

"How are you, sir?" said Mr. Stillinghast, turning his head, but not rising. "My niece, Helen Stillinghast. Take a chair." He did not introduce May, or notice her, except by a frown. Feeling the tears rush to her eyes at this new mark of her uncle's displeasure, she flitted back to the kitchen, and commenced operations with her waffle irons. While engaged with her domestic preparations, she heard the gay, manly voice of Mr. Jerrold, in an animated conversation with Helen, who now, in her right element, laughed and talked incessantly. Again welled up the bitter fountain in her heart, but that talismanic word dispersed it, and it was gone, like spray melting on the sunny shores of the sea. When she placed the supper on the table, she moved around with such calm self-possession—such an airy, light motion of modest grace, that Walter Jerrold, who had seen much of the world, and lived in the best company, was struck by the anomaly which combined so much real grace with what, he considered, domestic drudgery. And May's appearance justified his remarks. A dark, rich merino dress; a small, finely embroidered collar, with cuffs of the same; a breast-knot of crimson and black ribbon; and her waving, glossy hair, falling in broad bands on her fair cheeks, and gathered up at the back of her head, beneath a jet comb, completed her attire. It was her usual holiday dress, and did not embarrass her. Her eyes looked larger, brighter, and darker than usual, and a faint tinge of rose stole through the transparent fairness of her cheeks. But, with all, May was no beauty in the ordinary acceptance of the term. She was one of those rare mortals who steal into the soul like a pleasant, beneficent idea, and satisfy its longings with something calmer and holier than mere worldly friendship; for there was that within May's soul—the hidden mystery of faith and religion—which, like a lamp in a vase of alabaster, shone out from her countenance with an influence which none could withstand; it won—it led—it blessed those who yielded to its power. She presided at the head of the table that evening with quiet grace, and attempted once or twice to converse with her uncle, but his looks and replies were so harsh that she turned to Helen and Mr. Jerrold, and in a short time found herself amused at his persiflage and Helen's repartees.

"I have writing to do, Jerrold," said Mr. Stillinghast, after tea; "and if you will excuse me, I will go up to my room. You can drop in, and look over those papers before you go. However, stay as late as it is agreeable for you to do so." Walter Jerrold understood him. Already captivated by Helen's beauty and worldliness, his decision was made.

Very soon was heard through the silent mansion strains of music, which startled the echoes in its silent and deserted rooms, accompanied by a voice of such thrilling sweetness and volume of tone, that the solitary old man, in his cold and cheerless apartment, threw down his pen, and sprung to his feet, to listen. It was Helen singing wild cavatinas from Norma, and solos from Der Freischutz, and looking so splendidly beautiful the while, that Walter Jerrold thought with pride and exultation of introducing so much loveliness to the world as his bride. May was silent, and wondered at it all, and felt, rather than reasoned that somehow Helen was bartering away her eternal interests for gain, and that these scenes were integral parts of the ruinous scheme.

So she was not much surprised when Mr. Jerrold, on taking leave, asked permission to call the next day with his mother; to which Helen assented graciously, and May, having no decided reason to do otherwise, said, "they would be pleased to see Mrs. Jerrold."

"Where shall I find Mr. Stillinghast, Miss Brooke?"

"In the room, sir, just at the head of the staircase. It is the first door, a little to the left."

"Thank you. Good night, again, fair ladies," he said, bounding up the steps.

"Come in," said the voice of Mr. Stillinghast, in answer to his low tapping.

"Aha! well?"

"Have you the necessary papers ready, sir?" inquired the young man, eagerly.

"Here they are. Are you ready to sign them?"

"This moment, sir. Give me the pen."

"No, sir; read them first. I'll have no such head-over-heels doings in any transactions in which I am concerned. Here they are!" said Mr. Stillinghast, in his saturnine, rough way.

Walter Jerrold read the papers, which were worded according to the strictest legal forms, slowly and attentively, and felt more than satisfied.

"All right, Mr. Stillinghast. 'Faith, sir, your niece requires no golden chains to her chariot. She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld—accomplished, and elegant in form and manners. Give me the pen!" he said, earnestly, as he spread out the parchment, and prepared to sign his name thereto.

"Clouds are beautiful with the sunshine on them," said the old man, with a sneer; "so is a mirage in the desert; so are the apples on the shores of the Dead Sea. But she is yours. You'll find no trouble in winning her, even at the sacrifice of her creed. She is of the earth earthy, and will willingly escape from such a miserable home as this."

"Mr. Stillinghast, I do not wish to feel that this is quite a barter. Your niece would grace a throne, and I am vain enough to think that I have qualities which may win her regard."

"Bosh! fool! All mankind are fools! But leave me—goodnight. Make your arrangements to move to my counting-house to-morrow."

"My fortune is made. The 'Cedars' will not pass into other hands," thought Walter Jerrold, as he left the house.

The next day May went to see old Mabel, who was quite sick; and while she was gone, Mrs. Jerrold called with her son. The proud, worldly woman, was enchanted with the elegance and beauty of Helen, and, ere she left her, had engaged her in a round of engagements; soirees—the opera, and dinner parties, rung like music in Helen's ears, who, half wild with joy, could scarcely repress her emotions from breaking out in some ill-bred expressions of delight. Without a moment's reflection, she consented to attend St. Paul's Church the next Sunday morning, at eleven o'clock, and hear the well-meaning Protestant clergyman who officiated there. "You will see the best people in town there; it is considered one of the most elegant congregations in the city." By the best people, Mrs. Jerrold meant the leaders of the town, and had not the remotest idea that she was holding out a false inducement, or saying any thing at all incompatible with the spirit of Christianity.

"I will call for you in my carriage, Miss Stillinghast, with Walter," continued the lady, touching Helen's cheek with her lips.

And after this Helen quite withdrew herself from the domestic cares of the house to attend exclusively to her toilette—her music—her walks and drives with Jerrold, and visits to his mother. Mr. Stillinghast seemed not to observe what was going on, and May, anxious to shield her from his displeasure, which she supposed would be excited by this neglect, went on in her old routine, as if nothing had ever occurred to interrupt it. Thus weeks rolled by, and Helen was the affianced wife of Walter Jerrold; forgetful of the demands of religion, and turning a deaf ear to the whispers of conscience, and a cold, proud eye on the practical works of faith; and scornfully hushing May's expostulations, she thought only of the realization of her ambitious and worldly dreams, and plunged into the gayeties of life with a zest worthy of a better cause.

May, all this time, was cheerfully climbing step by step; sometimes fainting—sometimes stumbling—sometimes falling, but ever rising with renewed strength up the steep and narrow way of Calvary. Her uncle's distrustful manner—his harsh language—his angry looks, with Helen's apparent apostasy, and haughty demeanor, were trials which required the constant replenishing of grace in her soul, to bear with patience. But Father Fabian bid her to be of good cheer; the divine sacraments of the Church strengthened and consoled her by their sweet and mighty power; and like waters returning cool and purified to their source, or dews gently falling to the earth from which they had risen, in blessing and refreshment, her daily visits to old Mabel, so full of charity and good-will, filled her with indescribable happiness.

Mrs. Jerrold insisted on furnishing Helen's trousseau, while she was occupied every day in selecting expensive furniture for a house her uncle had settled on her, with permission to furnish it without regard to cost, on condition that she was married by a Protestant minister. She was telling May, with great glee and pride, about her purchases, when she suddenly paused, and exclaimed,

"You need not look so grave, May. I presume my marriage will be as legal and respectable as if the ceremony was performed by a priest."

"As legal as any other civil rite. But, Helen, you know that the Church acknowledges no such marriages amongst her children. Her precepts teach that marriage, to be legal, must also be sacramental. It is a sacrament; one which is held in high esteem and respect by the Church, and no Catholic can contract it otherwise, without censure. In case you persist, your marriage will not be recognized by the Church as valid, or your offspring legitimate."

"I shall have a great many to keep me in countenance," replied Helen, coldly. "I have no idea of submitting to every thing; Jerrold would not, I am sure, consent to being married by a Catholic priest, and I do not intend to thwart him, as I consider it a matter of very little importance."

"Helen, listen to me. You must listen to me. It shall be the last time, if you will only be patient. There is an hour coming, if you persist in your present course, when you will wish you had never been born; an hour when all human aid must fail, and all human interests and splendor drop away from you like rotten rags; when your soul, affrighted and shrinking, will go forth, obeying the inexorable laws, of the Creator, to meet its Almighty Judge. When the shadows will fall darkly around your way, Helen, and phantoms of darkness lie in wait, until the irrevocable sentence is spoken, which will consign you to utter woe; when, stripped of all, you will stand shivering and alone before an awful tribunal, to give evidence against yourself. Oh, Helen! dear Helen! how will it be with you then? how will you escape, oh faithless daughter of the Church!"

"May!" cried Helen, while her face grew deadly white, and she grasped her cousin's arm; "hush! how dare you speak thus to me? It is cruel! Henceforth utter no such language to me while we both live. If I am on the brink of perdition, I alone am responsible for my acts—not you."

"I will try to obey you, Helen, so far; but I will pray for you—I will do penance for you—I will offer frequent communions for you—I will intercede with our tender and Immaculate Mother for you. I will fly to Calvary, and at the foot of the cross beseech our suffering Jesus, by his bitter passion and death to have mercy on you. You cannot stop me—you cannot hinder me in this, for, oh Helen! it is an awful thing to see a soul tearing off its baptismal robe, trampling underfoot the seals of the Church, and rushing away from her fold of safety to eternal—eternal woe!" cried May, wringing her hands, while big tears rolled over her face.

Helen turned away to brush off a single tear that moistened her eyes, but through it she saw the glitter of a diamond bracelet, which Walter Jerrold had just sent her, with a bouquet of hot-house flowers—all rare and costly, and the poor tear was dashed off with impatience, and a haughty curl of the lip.

"You act finely, May, but drop all this, and tell me what you will wear at my bridal," said Helen, clasping the bracelet on her arm, to try its effect.

"I shall not be there, Helen. I cannot even wish you joy, for there can no joy ever come in disobeying the Church, whose voice is the voice of God himself."

"As you please," she replied, coldly; "but croak no more to-night. You are like a bird of ill-omen to me."

May sighed, and retired to her oratory, to say her night prayers.



CHAPTER X.

THE WARNING.

One morning Mr. Stillinghast was sitting alone in his counting-room, when Michael, the porter, came in, and informed him that a man wished to speak to him.

"Tell him to come in," he replied, moodily.

"Here he is, sir," said Michael, returning in a few minutes with a man, who had a saw slung over his arm.

"What is your business with me?" said Mr. Stillinghast.

"And didn't your honor sind afther me?"

"I never heard of you in my life before," he stormed.

"And then, sir, you may blame the ommadhauns that sent me; for, by this and by that, they tould me at the wood-yard, foreninst, that your honor was inquiring for me," replied the man, slinging his saw up over his shoulder.

"At the wood-yard? I remember; but it is too late, now—it makes no difference," said Mr. Stillinghast, speaking slowly, and frowning.

"I'd have come before, only the day afther the young lady took me to saw wood for the ould nagur, I got the pleurisy, and didn't lave my bed these five weeks," said the man, lingering about the door.

"Come in here, and close the door," said Mr. Stillinghast, while his stern, forbidding countenance wore a strange look of anxiety; "do you remember the young lady; and can you direct me to the place where you sawed the wood?"

"Oh, yes, your honor. I shall never forget her to my dying day. She was a little, bright-eyed lady, with a smile of an angel on her, by dad!"

"May," muttered the old man, "there is only one May. But I have a reason," he said, turning to the man, "for wishing to see this old woman; can you conduct me to the place?"

"I'm at your service intirely, sir. It's a good stretch, though," said the man, who looked weak from his recent illness.

"Is it near an omnibus route?"

"Yes, your honor, it is close by where they stop. You'll not have to walk far."

"Leave your saw here, then, and let us go. I have no time to spare on walks," said Mr. Stillinghast, in his peremptory way. His real object, however, was not so much to save time, as to afford the man an opportunity to avoid a long and fatiguing walk. "Tell Mr. Jerrold I will be back in the course of an hour," he said to Michael, as he passed out.

"Very well," replied Michael, heaving, with Titan strength, a bale on the truck; "and there goes a pair of 'em. My boss can afford to walk with a poor wood-sawyer; he looks like one hisself, and it's hard to tell 'tother from which;" and he planted his brawny hands on his thighs, and looked after them, with a broad smile on his honest countenance, until they got into the omnibus, and were whirled out of sight. At the depot, which is in the northern part of the city, they got out, and the two men pursued their way in silence. It was one of those cold, but calm, bright days in winter, when the very air seems filled with silent ripples of gladness; when the sunshine rests like a glory on the leafless trees, and bright-eyed robins chirp and peck the moss, as they hop from bough to bough; when the light of heaven is so over all, that even the dun-colored earth, the decayed leaves and rotten branches, which the autumn blast has laid low, look beautiful, and seem to whisper resurgam; when a cold, bracing wind sends the warm blood bounding through our hearts—tinting our cheeks, and warming our extremities, until we bless it, as we do the strong hand which leads us in childhood; and we listen, with docile tenderness, to its teachings, for it tells with pathos, of suffering in the hovels of the poor, and want, and poverty, and bids us thither like a winged angel. Down, beneath the rustic bridge, boys were shouting and skating on the frozen stream, their laughter echoing like music through the old woods; anon, the sharp crack of rifle, or the distant barking of dogs, rung on the still air, while the bells of the city, and the hum rising up from its crowded streets, blending with the clear echoes, made a concert of merry and harmonious sounds. Mr. Stillinghast paused on a knoll, and looked around him. There lay the rolling country, with its undulations of hill and vale, all interspersed, and adorned with picturesque cottages and elegant villas. Towards the east, up rose the splendid city, with up-hill and down-hill streets; its marble monuments, commemorative of great men and great deeds; its magnificent domes, raised in honor of the Most High God; its lofty towers, its princely mansions; while far beyond, stretching to the verge of the horizon, slumbered the quiet and beautiful bay, sparkling like a sea of ultramarine and diamonds, over whose waters hundreds of sails were hovering like white sea-fowl.

Towards the north-western boundary of the city, he saw the dark, massive founderies and manufactories, which, from their palatial-looking walls, sent out the never-ceasing clang of labor, and the tireless song of steam, to which thousands of stout arms and brawny sinews kept time. And far beyond these, out on the quiet hills, the scene terminated in a Marble City,[1] where, beneath trees of centuries growth, its inhabitants slumber silently through the long, cold night of death, until the revivifying beams of the resurrection day shall dawn on the earth-mantle that wraps their clay. But over all shone the glad beauty of the day. It poured down its effulgence alike on the city of the dead and the city of the living! Mr. Stillinghast had not looked on the like for years, long, dusty, dreary years; and he felt a tingling in his heart—a presence of banished memories, an expansion of soul, which softened and silenced him, while gradually it lifted from his countenance the harsh, ugly mask he usually wore.

"Here we are," said the man, pointing to old Mabel's cottage; "this is the place."

Then it occurred to Mr. Stillinghast, for the first time, that he had come there without any particular object in view—he had obeyed an impulse which he did not pause to analyze, and now, somewhat embarrassed he stood still, uncertain what to do.

"You may return," he said to the man, to whom he gave a dollar; "this will pay you for the time you have lost." The man thanked him, and went his way, rejoicing in the reward of such pleasant and easy labor.

"Why not go in?" he murmured, "I am here on a fool's errand, after all. But why not enter? If this old beggar is so destitute, I can leave her something to buy a loaf; but what business is it of mine? A plague on it all! What do I here—why are you here, Mark Stillinghast?" Then he opened the door very softly, and, as he did so, he heard these words repeated in a clear, sweet voice,—"For what shall it profit a man, if he gains the whole world, and lose his own soul!" then he saw May seated beside the old negro, reading from some pious, instructive book, of Christian doctrine. And those words came ringing down into his soul like the blast of ten thousand trumpets! He staggered back; his old, withered cheek, grew pallid, and he turned away and fled—but they pursued him. "Profit—gain—loss. Profit—gain—loss. Profit—gain—loss. I understand them!" he gasped. "I have heaped up gains; of earthly profit I have my share; and now, at the eleventh hour, it is summed up, and what is it—yes, what is it? IT IS LOSS. For all that is mortal, I have toiled my best hours away; for all that is immortal, not one hour have I spared. It is loss—loss—eternal loss." And so he went on muttering—back to his den in the city, where the leaden waves of business again came surging, breast high, around him; but through the dull, heavy sounds, the warning still rung, like distant knells, through his soul.

On his homeward way that night, the farther he receded from the noise of the city, the more it distinctly sounded, with its requiem wail, through the dreary chambers of his heart; and, somehow, he suddenly remembered, as he paused to rest, that it was on this very spot that he had seen Father Fabian administering the last rites of the church to a dying penitent; and he trembled, and hurried on, until he came to his own door. May was sitting up alone for him; and when she opened the door, and the rays from the hall lamp fell on his features, she saw that he looked ill and weary.

"Let me assist you, dear uncle," said May, taking his hat and returning to help him draw off his coat. "I fear you are not well."

"It is very cold," he replied, shivering, and yielding to her wishes.

"You will soon feel better, sir; see what a nice fire here is—and I have a piping-hot cup of tea and hot muffins for your supper."

"May Brooke," said the strange old man, while he laid his cold, heavy hand on her shoulder, "stop; answer the questions I shall ask you, truly and honestly."

"I will endeavor to do so, sir," replied May, lifting her clear, bright eyes to his.

"You can, and must. What object have you in providing for that old negro woman, on the outskirts of the city?"

"I pity her, sir, because she is poor and helpless, and do it, I hope, for the love of God," she said, amazed, but quiet.

"Very well. And now, for the love of God, answer this," he said, with anxiety; "tell me how, you provide for her—how you get means to buy wood and necessaries?"

"Dear uncle, I am sorry you have found it out. I do not like to speak of it—indeed, I would prefer not—it seems—so—yes—it seems like boasting, or talking too much about myself," said May, while her cheeks flushed crimson.

"Go on; I will know!" he said, harshly.

"Yes, sir. I earn a trifle every two or three weeks by knitting fancy articles, which Mrs. Tabb on C—— Street, disposes of for me—"

"And then—"

"And then, sir, I take care of old Mabel with the proceeds; but please, dear, dear uncle, do not forbid me to continue doing so; pray allow me the privilege of earning a trifle for her benefit while she lives; and then, sir, never—never speak of it to me or any one else, after this," she implored.

"I shall not hinder you, child," said Mr. Stillinghast, repressing a groan of anguish which struggled up from his heart. They went together into the sitting-room; and May spread his supper before him, but he only drank his tea, and pushing his plate away, came and sat in his armchair beside the fire.

"You have taken nothing, sir; pray try and eat this, it is very nice."

"I have such an infernal singing in my ears, that I cannot eat. I can hardly see. Ding, dong—ding, dong. Great Lord! if this should be eternal!" he exclaimed, forgetting the presence of May.

"You are not well, sir. Sit here near the fire; put your feet upon this cushion, so that the soles will be towards the fire, and while you smoke, I will read the paper to you," said May.

"For what?" he asked, turning his fierce, gray eyes upon her.

"Because you are not well, sir," she said, looking calmly into them.

"Do you know that I have made my will,—cut you off with a few paltry dollars, not enough to feed you, and left that Helen—that trifler—that waif, a princely fortune?" he asked, savagely.

"You have a right, sir, to do as you please with your own. You have sheltered, schooled, and fed me—I have no right to expect more," she said, gently.

"And if I should be sick—die—what then?" he asked, impatiently.

"Dear uncle, you alarm me. Do you feel ill? If so, oh, dearest uncle, attend first of all to your eternal concerns—make your peace with God while it is yet day, and enter into that fold whose Shepherd is Jesus Christ; where one Lord, one Faith, one Baptism reign!" exclaimed May, grasping his hand.

"Be silent, you incorrigible papist; what need is there of flying off at such a tangent?" said Mr. Stillinghast, with a grim smile; "I did not mean that, but what will become of you when I am dead?"

"I have a head, sir, and hands, and great faith in Him, who has promised to be a father to the orphan. I shall never want. In honest exertion I shall be happy and content," she said, earnestly.

"And you do not regret or envy the fortune?

"Not on my own account, sir."

"On whose, then?"

"There are many, sir, who might be benefited by it, if properly applied. I think, now, if I had a fortune, I could do a great deal of good with it."

"You'd do harm, May Brooke—you'd do harm. You'd squander it—you'd encourage pauperism, and worthlessness, and beggary!" he burst out.

"I shall never have it to do good or evil with, uncle; but if I had, I would endeavor, for God's sake, to bestow it where it was needed; and because it would be offered for the love of Him, my works would not fall useless or fruitless to the earth. HE would bless and aid me."

"Profit—gain—loss," again muttered the old man. "But, as you will never inherit a fortune, I suppose your good intentions must suffice."

"Yes, sir, for the present."

"And, now that you have nothing to expect from me, of course you will feel quite independent of me and my wishes. If I should be ill, I suppose you'd take off and leave me to my fate," he said, bitterly.

"No, sir," she said, calmly; "but words and professions are mere sentences written in sand—the first wave washes them out. I don't want a fortune. I would not have gold, as I live, sir, except as the minister of my good purposes, the slave on which I could set my heel, unless it served me to lay up treasure in heaven. And should you be ill, dear uncle, I trust you will find no disposition in me to shrink from my duty."

"There it is again," he murmured, as he got up, and walked to and fro. "Profit—loss—gain. Give me my candle; I must go to bed—I feel very weary and tired."

"Shall I get anything for you, sir?"

"No," he replied.

"I shall wait for Helen, sir, and if you want anything, just rap on the floor, or call, and I will come up instantly."

"Go to bed—go to bed, child," he said, in his old, rough way, as he went out into the hall to go up to his room.

[1] Greenmount Cemetery.



CHAPTER XI.

THE MIDNIGHT MESSENGER.

May listened, and heard Mr. Stillinghast moving to and fro in his room with slow and regular footsteps for a while, then all was silent, and she supposed he had gone to bed. Still waiting for Helen, she recited the rosary for his conversion. She knew that all things are possible with Almighty God, and that dear to him, and precious in his sight, is the conversion of sinners. She also knew that Jesus Christ ever turns a propitious ear to the intercession of his Immaculate Mother, and it was with tender confidence, and earnest faith, that she implored her to obtain from her Divine Son the conversion of her uncle. At last a carriage stopped, and May heard Helen's voice at the door conversing gayly with Walter Jerrold. She wrapped her shawl about her, and went out to admit her. She sprang into the hall, singing wild thrills from Lucia de Lammermoor, and without stopping, flew to her harp, and ran her fingers over the strings, preluding brilliantly,

"Oh, May, you should have been there—the most divine opera! Sontag sung like an angel."

"Dear Helen," said May, interrupting her, and laying her hand on her arm, "don't! you will disturb Uncle Stillinghast; he is not well."

"You don't say so!" exclaimed Helen, turning her face towards her, while a gleam of almost ferocious pleasure shone in her eyes. "Oh, you don't say so! Is he very sick?"

"A slight cold, I believe; at any rate, do not let us disturb him," said May, surprised and shocked at her evident pleasure.

"What nonsense!" cried Helen, laughing hysterically; "he'll live until you and I are both dead, May. He's as tough as gutta percha. But, would it not be a nice thing if he'd pop off suddenly, and leave us his money?"

"Do not say us, Helen. I expect nothing, and desire nothing. As for you, be satisfied; you are handsomely provided for."

"I know it; I know it. I have read the will!" exulted Helen.

"Read the will, Helen! How? When?"

"Oh, I did not mean that exactly," said Helen, much confused; "you really take me up so quick, that it is terrible. I should have said that Walter told me something of the old man's intentions."

"May it be blessed to you, Helen, come when it will; but while he lives, let his generous intentions in your favor purchase at least your respect," said May, in a tone of bitter reproof, for at the moment she recollected Helen's threat some weeks before to get into her uncle's chamber, if possible, and she feared that she had accomplished her object at the expense of all that was honorable in feeling, and just in principle.

"May, you won't say anything—about—about what I just blundered out concerning the—" said Helen, confused and stammering.

"No, Helen; I have nothing to say. It was natural, though not delicate, for Mr. Jerrold to impart such information to you. No doubt he thought it would enhance your happiness," said May, settling herself in her uncle's chair.

"That's a good May. Oh, May, if you were not such a little fanatic how I should love you," said Helen, stooping over to kiss May's forehead; but she put up her hand, and the kiss fell on the tips of her fingers. But her very indignation, although just, humbled her, for with a flash of thought, she was in Gethsemane, and saw the meek and Divine Jesus receive the kiss of Judas. "Why, then," she thought, "should I shrink back from one who needs my pity more than my hate?"

"I shall sit up a little longer, Helen. I feel quite uneasy about Uncle Stillinghast. Good night," she said, holding out her hand to Helen.

"What a curious little one you are, May," said Helen, holding the tiny hand a moment in her own; "but do come up soon, for really I am afraid to be up there alone."

And Helen went up to their chamber, and closed the door. She was alone, and had inadvertently placed her candle on May's table before the old Spanish crucifix. A small circle of light was thrown around it, from the midst of which the sorrowful face, in its depicted agony of blood and tears, and the measure of a world's woe stamped on its divine lineaments, looked on her. Terrified and silent, she stood gazing on it—her hands clasped—her lips apart, and trembling. The crown of thorns—the transfixed hands and feet, from which the blood seemed flowing—the wounded side—the sorrowful eyes, appealed to her. "For thee!" whispered the angel conscience; "it was all for thee!—this ignominy—this suffering—this death—oh, erring one! It was all for thee Divine Jesus assumed the anguish and bitterness of the cross! Oh, wanderer! why add new thorns to that awful crown of agony? Why insult the son of God, who suffers for you, by your derelictions and betrayal?"

Stricken and afraid, she would have fled from the spot, but she could not move; her temples throbbed and her limbs trembled, when, lifting her eyes, she beheld a portrait of the mother of Sorrows, whose countenance, sublime in its blended tenderness and grief, seemed to look down with pity on her. She sunk weeping to the floor, and murmured, "Intercede for me, oh, Lady of Sorrows! I have wounded thy Divine Son by my transgressions; I fear to approach Him, who is my terrible Judge; pity me, then, that I may not become utterly cast away!" Then she wept softly, and it seemed that, in this hour of keen repentance, the errors of the past would be atoned for—that a new life would dawn around her; that in prodigal's attire of repentance and tears, she would return humbly to her Father's house. But the spirit of the world had wound its deadly fetters too closely around her; the time of her return and purification, and welcome—if it ever came, was veiled in the future; but that passionate soul-felt appeal to the Refuge of Sinners was registered where it would return in benedictions when the soul weary of its wanderings, sought for forgiveness and peace—if it ever did. And, after all, ere sleep visited her eyelids, she was plunged again in plans of petty ambition, vanity, and the pride of life,—so impotent is the human heart, unsupported by the grace of God.

Twelve o'clock chimed from the old French clock over the mantel, and May, all unconscious of Helen's struggle with conscience, still waited to hear any sound that might come from Mr. Stillinghast's chamber: but everything remained quiet, and she was wrapping her shawl around her to go up to bed, when she thought she heard a groan—then footsteps, followed by a peculiar muffled sound. In a moment she was in the hall, where she heard it more distinctly, and springing up the staircase, rushed into her uncle's room. By some rare forgetfulness, or bewilderment, he had left his door unfastened. The candle was still burning, and May saw him lying on the floor, where he had fallen in his endeavor to reach the door to call for assistance; his face purple and swollen, and his breath gurgling up with a choking, spasmodic sound.

"Great God, help me!" cried May, throwing up her arms wildly. "He will die before I can obtain help!" But she was not the one to stand lamenting when aught was to be done, so, collecting her scattered senses, she bethought herself of the watchman, who was just at that moment crying the hour at the corner. She flew down, unlocked the hall-door, and springing out into the freezing mist and darkness, she found him, seized his hand, and told her story. "Go, for God's sake! for the nearest doctor; do not delay an instant."

"Who are you, you wild witch, grabbing a fellow like a cat! Who are you?" cried the watchman, shaking her off.

"I am the niece of old Mark Stillinghast. He is dying, I fear," she cried, wringing her hands.

"Zounds! the old man dying! Yes, I'll go directly," said the watchman, moving off. He had been on the beat twenty years, and felt an individual interest in all those whose property and lives he guarded. Then May, thankful for his promptness, remembered to have heard that ice applications to the head were good in cases like this, and rushing back into the yard, she groped her way to the rain-barrel, and stooping over, seized the jagged edges of the ice, which she had broken that very day, and tearing it away from the sides, hastened back, and up to the chamber of death, with her prize in her bleeding hands. Stripping a case from a pillow, she threw in the ice—pounded it with the tongs—shook it together, and lifting up her uncle's insensible head, laid the icy pillow under it, and gathered the ends over his forehead, as well as she could. Then she chafed his hands, exclaiming all the time, "Merciful Jesus, pity him! Merciful Jesus, help me, and strengthen me!" But his breathing became more and more difficult, and his limbs began to be agitated with horrible convulsions. A sudden thought suggested itself. She untied her silk apron, tore off the strings—ripped up the sleeve of Mr. Stillinghast's shirt, and wound the ribbon tightly around his arm above the elbow; and while waiting for the vein to swell, she took a small penknife from her pocket, and opened the blade—it was thin, keen, and pointed. She had found it among her father's papers years ago, and kept it about her to scrape the points of her ivory knitting-needles. In another moment, invoking the aid of Heaven, she had made an incision in the vein. A few black drops of blood trickled down—then more; then fast and faster flowed the dark stream over her dress, on the floor, for she could not move—her strength was ebbing away. Presently the brain of the stricken man, relieved of the pressure on it, began to resume its functions; the spasms and convulsions ceased, and a low moan escaped his lips. At that moment the watchman, accompanied by a physician, entered the room, and May remembered nothing more.



CHAPTER XII.

REPENTANCE.

When May recovered, she looked around her with an alarmed and bewildered feeling. The darkened, tossed-up room; the stranger watching beside her; the pale, silent form on the bed, so motionless that the bed-clothes had settled around it like a winding-sheet, were all so much like the continuation of a dreadful dream, that she shuddered, and lifted herself up on her elbow.

"You are better?" inquired a kind voice.

"Have I been ill?" she asked.

"Not ill, exactly," replied the doctor; "you fainted just as I came in with the watchman to your assistance." Then she remembered it all.

"How is my uncle now, sir?" said May, sitting up, and with a modest blush gathering up the masses of dark hair which had fallen from her comb.

"He is doing well now. He is indebted to your energy and presence of mind for his life," said the doctor.

"Oh, thank God! thank God, that he is better! Do you think, sir, that he will recover?"

"He may, but it is doubtful. I shall not be able to decide until he awakes. Meanwhile, lady, lie down, and rest. I will watch."

"I could not sleep, sir; if I could, I would obey your directions; but I will rest my head on the sofa here, that I may be better able to attend to my duties to-day," said May, in her earnest, matter-of-fact sort of way. And the doctor, a young man who was rising rapidly in his profession—a son of the people, who, through difficulties and rugged obstacles, and calumny and opposition, had emerged purified, and conscious of power from it all, and attained an honorable position professionally and socially, looked at that fragile form, and paid homage to the right-thinking and right-acting spirit it contained. Her conduct had been heroic, noble, and evinced so much strength of character that even he, accustomed to phenomena, mental and physical, wondered. He knew not whence she derived her strength; he had no idea of that divine charity which gives Titan power to the weak, and considers life itself of little worth when it does battle for the salvation of souls. It was a mystery, the effects of which he had witnessed, but could trace no further than the comparative harmony of physiology. Towards sunrise, Mr. Stillinghast turned uneasy on his pillow, and opened his eyes. He looked around him with a puzzled, angry look; his bound-up arm—his garments clotted with blood—the confusion into which his room was thrown—the strange man watching by his bedside—May resting on the old sofa—what meant it all? He tried to call out, but could only whisper.

"What's all this? Have I been robbed? Who are you?"

"I hope you feel a great deal better, Mr. Stillinghast. You have been quite ill, sir," said the doctor, soothingly. "I am Dr. Burrell; allow me to feel your pulse."

"For what? I never was sick in my life. I never had my pulse felt," he said, doggedly.

"How does your head feel, sir?"

"My head! ah, my head feels shaky. Call her here."

May was beside him in a moment, holding his hand, and looking down into his white pinched features with commiseration.

"What's all this, child? Why are you here?"

"You have been very ill, dear uncle. You know you were poorly last night. I felt uneasy about you, and sat up to listen if you should call for any thing, until I heard you fall," said May, in a low, clear, and distinct voice.

"Fall?"

"Then, sir, I ran up here, and found you on the floor, so ill—so very ill," said May, hesitating, always unwilling to speak of her own acts.

"What then?"

"I did all that I could, sir, until the doctor came," she said.

"And that means every thing, Mr. Stillinghast. She saved your life. She used the best remedies; she put ice about your head, and bled you. When I came you were out of danger; but be calm, sir; let me beseech you to be calm," said the doctor.

"Did you do all this, little May?" he asked, looking earnestly at her with his piercing gray eyes.

"Yes, sir; I had read that such remedies were necessary."

"Why did you do it, little one? My life or death is of no interest to you. Tell me why you did it?" he whispered.

"Oh, dear uncle, forgive me!" said May, while her tears dripped like rain-drops on her wan cheek; "I knew that you had made no preparation for death. I would have died that you might live long enough to effect a reconciliation with Heaven."

"Profit—gain—loss—loss—loss!" he murmured; then suddenly he put up his feeble hand, and drawing May's face closer to him, kissed her cheek. "If it is not too late, pray for me!" he whispered, in tones so low that she scarcely heard them.

"Not too late. Oh no, dear uncle, it is not too late," said May, smoothing back the tangled gray hair from his sunken temples.

"Mr. Stillinghast, my dear sir, I fear that you are exciting yourself. I would recommend quiet, composure; indeed, sir, it is absolutely necessary in your case," said the doctor, looking on uneasily.

"It will make no difference, sir. I know full well whose finger has touched me. Do you know that I cannot move my left side?" said the old man in his firm, stern way.

"I feared it," said the doctor, turning away to conceal the expression of pain which this information caused him; "but it may pass off, you may quite recover yet, sir. A cup of weak tea would be good for our patient," he said to May.

May glided out of the room, followed by the gaze of the stricken old man, to prepare it for him. She ran up to awaken Helen, and told her that their uncle was dangerously ill. "Dress, dear Helen, and go to him immediately, while I get a cup of tea for him."

"How very pale you are, May! Is he in danger?" exclaimed Helen, starting up, quite awakened by the news.

But May was gone. When she went up again with the cup and saucer in her hand, Mr. Stillinghast greeted her with a look of welcome.

"Do not leave me again," he whispered, as he sipped the tea; "it will not be long, little one, that I shall keep you. Take this away now, and send for Mr. Fielding."

"Perhaps you know Mr. Fielding, sir?" said May, to Dr. Burrell.

"He is my neighbor. Can I be of service?" he replied.

"My uncle wishes to see him as early as possible. He is his man of business, I think," replied May, who felt anxious that Mr. Stillinghast should attend to his worldly concerns, and wind them up as soon as possible, that all the energies of his soul might be directed to higher objects.

"Here is a prescription, sir," said the doctor, "which I would advise you to take immediately."

"Will it cure me?

"It may relieve you very much."

"Will it cure me, I say?" said the old man, sharply.

"I cannot say; I can only promise temporary relief from its use."

"I won't take it. I thank you for your patience, and shall be glad to see you again; but I won't take your medicine."

"If you were a child, sir, I would compel you to take it; but as it is, I can only recommend the continual application of cold bandages to your head. I will call in this evening," said the doctor, kindly, as he left the room.

"May!"

"I am here by you, sir."

"It is not too late to do you an act of justice."

"Oh, dear, dear uncle!" said May, earnestly, "forget me; forget the affairs of earth, and think of the judgment beyond the grave! Oh, sir! indeed—indeed, I fear, that the time is too short to be wasted on perishing things."

"Listen to me!" said the old man, gathering up his failing energies, and speaking in a low, distinct voice; "I wish to save my soul, but fear it is too late. My life has been one long, dark, dismal blank. There is nothing which I can remember—not one single thine, to cheer this dreary hour. I have gained the world, and lost—heaven. Until yesterday, I derided and scorned all religions. It has been my lot in life to become entangled and betrayed by hypocrites of various professions. They disgusted and embittered me with all religion. I tried to think you a hypocrite, and cursed your patience and good works as so many snares for gain. But my eyes were opened. I followed you yesterday, out to that old negro's hut; I wrung the tale of your charities from your unwilling lips, and know and understand all. And now, in return for all my harshness, my neglect, my cruel unkindness, you save my life; you tend me, nurse me, watch me, and for what? For the love of God.

"Don't interrupt me, little one. You have proved the truth of the faith you profess by your works. It suits me. I need no doctrinal arguments, no theological and abstruse disquisitions, to convince me that it is right. I believe it, May, even at the eleventh hour, when I have but little to hope. I believe—perhaps as devils do—for, child, I tremble."

"Oh, dear uncle, the grace of contrition is never given to devils. It is Almighty God who has touched your heart. He pities, and would save you. 'I desire not the death of him that dieth, saith the Lord God; return ye, and live.'"

"Does he say that?"

"Yes; that, and ten thousand times more. Think of Him, dear uncle, 'who was wounded for our transgressions, who was bruised for our sins; the chastisement of our peace was upon him, and by his bruises we are healed.'"

"What must I do besides?"

"Believe, and be baptized."

"Baptized! I was raised in the belief of the Friends, and have never been baptized," he said, musingly.

"Better so, sir, for now you can receive properly the waters of regeneration, and experience, when you so much need them, all the graces that flow from baptism into the believing soul," said May.

"I know the doctrines of your faith, May. I have read—I studied it in my days of vision and unreality as an admirable system of human philosophy; but you, child, in your humility—in your patience and long-suffering—in your cheerful docility, have taught me that it is divine."

"Oh, uncle, not me—not me! I have done nothing but duty," said May, covered with confusion. "It is the mysterious hand of Almighty God, leading you, guiding you to the truth."

"It can never—never be now! It is too late. I have wasted the hours—I have buried the talents—I have derided time—now the night cometh when no man shall work," he said, with an expression of anguish.

"Shall I bring Father Fabian? He can strengthen and cheer you with the promises of Christ; he has the power and authority from a divine source to absolve and prepare you for your passage into eternity. Oh, sir, let me go."

"Do with me what you please, strange—strong—wise little one! Only never leave me. Send your cousin for him." Just then Helen made her appearance, elaborately and beautifully dressed, as usual, and was shocked at the change in her uncle's appearance, which a few hours had made. She inquired "how he felt?"

"I believe I am ill. I wish you to take a note from May Brooke to her confessor. She must remain with me," he said, in his old way.

"I will go instantly," she said, glad to escape from such a scene, and wondering what the strange old man could have to do with a priest. May scribbled a few lines on the blank leaf of a book, tore it out, directed it to Father Fabian, and gave it to Helen.

"Try to sleep a little, sir," said May, gently.

"I have no time for sleep—tell me of Jesus Christ!"

And May took down from the shelf an old, mouldy Testament, which had not been opened for years, and read, in clear, steady tones, and with sweet pathos, the Passion of our Lord from Gethsamane to Calvary. When she finished, and looked up, the lips of that pale visage were firmly set, and from his cold, dim eyes, tears were falling apace—the first he had shed for long, dreary years—the first of contrition that had ever welled up from his soul.

He did not fear death—the mere act of dying, even the thought of annihilation, would not have stirred a ripple of fear in his heart, because, physically, he was bold, reckless, and defiant of personal danger—but the eternal instincts of his soul, developed by the providence of God, at the eleventh hour, sought their true destiny; they shrunk, with dread, from the scrutiny of Divine Purity, yet longed for immortal life, and immortal progress. Suddenly the veil had been torn from his eyes; suddenly he felt all the gnawing, hungry needs of his soul; suddenly his weakness, his wanderings, his infirmities, his tacit unbelief and indifference, were revealed, in all their frightful deformity,—and how? By a still, calm voice—the voice of a child, which had rung down the warning into his soul like thunder. "What will it profit a man, if he gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?" it had said; and earth and earthly affairs had assumed the shape of nothingness; the tough, hard work of years was scattered—like a potent lever it lifted away the demoniac weight of darkness and pride from his soul, as it rung down into its frozen depths. And the strong angel of God, who had been contending with the powers of evil, to wrest it from eternal loss, bore up the glad news to heaven, that the hoary sinner repented at the eleventh hour; and there was great joy among the angels of His presence, before Him.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE NEW WILL.

Father Fabian came. Miracles such as this never amazed him. He knew too well that the Spirit of the Eternal God, which abides with His Church for ever, was as powerful then as it had been in ages past, and that He still condescended to add miracles to the testimony of revelation, to glorify the faith He planted. With the angels, he only "rejoiced, and was exceeding glad," giving thanks to God for this new manifestation of His clement love. Long, and earnest, and touching, was the interview between the priest of God and the dying penitent. He saw the depths of an old and embittered heart broken up; he heard its plaintive cry, as it floated out towards the dark ocean of death, of, "Save, Lord, or I perish!" and its imploring prayer for the waters of regeneration, and the sacraments of the Church. All earth had failed him in this his hour of need; and from the deep abyss of his misery he expected no deliverance but through them. But at last, Peace was whispered, and into his soul was breathed the holy sentence of absolution; and on his hoary head was poured the baptismal stream; his eyes and ears had been opened by divine power; and, like Siloa's wave, it washed him clean. What was the leprosy of those men of old, to the corroding infection of SIN, which had for so many weary years diseased and defaced his spirit? They were healed by a miracle of power,—he, by a miracle of grace. Mr. Stillinghast was much exhausted, but calm and humble; he had suddenly become like a little child, so sincere and entire was his repentance.

"I will come again in a few hours, and administer to you, my poor friend, the Sacrament of Extreme Unction; and if I find that you are sinking, will bring the Holy Viaticum for your refreshment and consolation in the dark and trying hour. I would advise you now to settle all your worldly concerns, so that nothing may interfere between your soul and God."

"How is it with you now, dear uncle?" said May, who came in as Father Fabian left the room.

"Unworthy, child—all and utterly unworthy, but hoping humbly, through the infinite merits of Jesus Christ," he whispered.

"Mr. Fielding and Doctor Burrell are here!" said Helen, coming in.

"Is Father Fabian still here?"

"He is, sir."

"Request him to come back." Soon after the three gentlemen came in together. "Leave me a little while," he said, unclasping his fingers from May's hand.

"I fear that you feel very feeble, Mr. Stillinghast," said the doctor.

"I feel it, sir, but I have a work to do, and the 'day is far spent.' Could you ascertain, in any way, so that you could swear to it, that I am in my sane mind?" he asked, eagerly.

"The subject requires no investigation, sir. I have not the least doubt of your sanity. Your mind has been quite—nay, uncommonly clear since your recovery," replied the doctor.

"Gentlemen," he said, addressing the other, "I am perfectly and entirely in my senses; I have not a single obscure or confused idea. All is clear and calm. Fielding, I made a will a short time ago; I wish to change it—to make another. Open that desk, and you will find parchment, pens, and ink. Now, come sit near me—so. Begin and write the usual preamble and formula."

"It is done, sir," said Mr. Fielding, after writing rapidly some ten minutes.

"I wish to devise to my niece, May Brooke, two hundred thousand dollars in bank and city stock, subject to her entire and free control, without condition; and with the hope that she will accept and use it, as a memorial of my gratitude for the great and incalculable good she has done me. To Helen Stillinghast, I bequeath the sum of fifty thousand dollars, the harp I purchased for her, and the house, goods, and chattles I have devised to her elsewhere."

"It is all written out, sir, in due legal form," said Mr. Fielding.

"To my Irish porter, Michael Neal, who has served me faithfully these twenty years, an annuity of two hundred dollars—to be settled on him for life. To a certain wood-sawyer, introduced to me on the 25th by said Michael Neal, who will identify the man, the sum of one hundred dollars, annually, while he lives, as a small compensation for having conducted me, on that day, to a place where I learned something of the first importance to me." Then followed a magnificent bequest for the establishment and support of a Catholic asylum for boys; another for a standing fund for the support of young men preparing for the priesthood, who were destitute of means, and anxious to enter holy orders. The residue of his princely fortune, he wished applied to furnishing capital for a bank for the poor, where, by making small deposits in seasons of health and prosperity, they would be entitled to loans without interest, in ill-health, sickness, or hard times. To Walter Jerrold, in the event of his marrying Helen Stillinghast, his warehouse, then occupied by Stillinghast & Co., and whatever merchandise it contained. It was all put into legal form by the attorney—no technicality was omitted that might endanger the prompt execution of his wishes—not a letter or dot left out. Mr. Fielding read it aloud.

"Add a codicil, Fielding—a codicil. I wish my legacies to the church to be placed in the hands, and under the control, and at the will of, the Archbishop of Baltimore. For the rest, I name you sole executor. Have you finished? Let me sign it; then ask those gentlemen," he said, pointing to Father Fabian and Dr. Burrell, who had been engaged in a low-toned conversation at the window, to "witness it."

They came forward, saw him sign his name in full, clear characters, then appended their own signatures; after which, Mr. Stillinghast fell back exhausted on his pillow, and, while an expression of rest settled on his pale, time-worn features, he exclaimed,

"It is all right, now, Fielding. Now, my God, I am free; my burden, under which I have toiled through misspent years, is cast away. I am free!"

"Courage, my friend; you have done a good work—a work worthy of a dying Christian, and may the blessing of Almighty God rest on it and you," said Father Fabian, who made over him the sign of the cross, while he blessed him in the name of the Holy Trinity.

Mr. Fielding placed the will in a large white envelope, which he laid on the bed beside Mr. Stillinghast, and took leave, hoping that when he saw him in the morning he would be much better. The doctor prevailed on him to swallow a restorative which he had brought, after which, he grew more composed, and gave the will to May, and directed her to lay it on the shelf of a small, narrow closet, on the left side of the fireplace. As she did so, she saw another envelope like it, marked "Will;" also a number of packages—bonds, deeds, mortgages, and receipts, tied up in small; compact bundles, packed in between the shelves. But she felt no interest there; and quickly returning to her uncle's pillow, was glad to see that he had fallen into a profound sleep. Helen, who had been hovering about the door, and around the room, in and out, for the last half hour, came in again, and asked May if "she should not relieve her by taking her post, while her uncle slept?"

"No, dear Helen, he might awake and miss me; and he has requested me not to leave him until death releases his soul. Do you attend to the affairs of the house—I will watch here."

"There's something going on," thought Helen. "She's a deep one, with all her quiet piety; but she shall never stand between me and my aims. I have read one will—I shall not sleep until I read the other." Then, turning to May, she spoke aloud. "It will suit me better to be down stairs; I am so very nervous, that I am a poor nurse;" and glad to be released from a scene too uncongenial to her nature and feelings, she hastily withdrew.



CHAPTER XIV.

THE SECRET SIN.

"This is shocking news, Walter!" said Mrs. Jerrold to her son, when he imparted to her the news of Mr. Stillinghast's illness. "Do you know—has he—did he send—"

"I don't know, indeed," said the young man, abstractly.

"I mean, has he altered his will?" said the lady, speaking out.

"I do not know; Helen tells me that a lawyer has been with him, and a priest."

"A priest!" shrieked the lady. "Order the carriage instantly, Walter; I must see Helen."

"I have not seen her since the morning," said the young man, after having delivered the order, and returned to the sofa. "She looks harassed and ill, poor girl."

"I am sorry we have been so precipitate in this affair, Walter," said Mrs. Jerrold, fuming. "After all, this eccentric old person may change his mind, and it will be so awkward to break off the match, for you cannot afford to marry a poor woman."

"I do not apprehend any thing of the kind, mother. Helen's beauty and accomplishments are dower enough," he replied, calmly.

"Walter, I will never consent to this marriage if Helen is portionless," exclaimed the lady.

"My dear mother, you sometimes forget, do you not, that I have reached the mature age of thirty-one? Really, where my happiness is concerned, I shall submit to no control," he said, calmly.

"Happiness!" repeated the lady, scornfully.

"The carriage is at the door, madam," said a servant, at the door.

"Very well. Tell Rachael to bring down my bonnet and wrappings."

Soon accoutred for her drive, Mrs. Jerrold took her son's arm, and went down to her carriage. He handed her in, and stepped in after her.

"Why do you go, Walter?" she asked, looking annoyed.

"I wish to inquire after Mr. Stillinghast's health," he said, quietly.

A few minutes' drive brought them to Mr. Stillinghast's door. Helen heard the carriage stop, and her toilette, as usual, being very becomingly and carefully made—for Helen never forgot her self-homage—she met them at the door. Her countenance had assumed a sad and mournful expression, and in answer to their inquiries, she spoke in an agitated and subdued tone.

"It is horrible. I did not hear a word of it until to-day. I was dreadfully shocked," said Mrs. Jerrold, kissing her cheek.

"How is Mr. Stillinghast now, dear Helen?" asked Walter Jerrold, folding her hand closer in his own.

"They fear he is sinking," said Helen, in the same tone of counterfeit feeling.

"How melancholy!" said Mrs. Jerrold, taking possession of the corner of the sofa, almost dying with curiosity.

"Has he inquired after me, do you know Helen?"

"I have not heard."

"I thought, perhaps, he might wish to see me in relation to the firm, and its concerns; though every thing has been conducted with such strict regularity, that I do not suppose it is necessary."