"Perhaps as May has been with him all the time, she can give you some information," said Helen, with one of her cold, haughty glances towards May, who just then came in.

"I will not detain you one moment," said Mr. Jerrold, bowing to May. "I am anxious to know particularly how Mr. Stillinghast is, and if he has inquired for me?"

"But this moment, Mr. Jerrold, he awoke, and requested to see you. I thought you were here, and ran down to see. He is very low indeed, sir, and I will just let him know that you are waiting to see him."

"It may not be important; but if he is not too ill, I should be glad to see him a moment."

"I will come down for you immediately. Excuse me, Mrs. Jerrold," said May, who hurrying out, was met by Father Fabian. He spoke kindly to Helen, bowed courteously to the strangers, and went up stairs.

"Who is that, dear?" asked Mrs. Jerrold, whose attention had been arrested by the dignified courtesy of Father Fabian's manner.

"A Catholic clergyman," said Helen, blushing.

"Your uncle is not a Catholic?"

"He was not, but he is now."

A look of ineffable scorn spread over Mrs. Jerrold's handsome face, while a low, contemptuous laugh from her son, was the response.

"Dear Helen," said Mrs. Jerrold, taking the weak girl's hand in her own, with a caress, "excuse me, for no doubt you still feel some hankering after those mysterious idolatries which you have wisely abandoned; but this is so absurd. How came it about?"

"I cannot imagine," she replied, in a faltering voice; for at that moment the thorn-crowned head of Jesus Christ—his sorrowful face stained with drops of blood, until its divinely beautiful lineaments were almost covered—was visioned in her soul with such distinctness, that she almost shrieked; then it faded away, and she went on:

"I have seen very little of my uncle since his illness. He keeps my cousin May by his side, and is uneasy if she leaves him an instant."

"And she is a Catholic?" asked Mrs. Jerrold, anxiously.

"Yes, a perfect devotee," replied Helen, bitterly.

"An infatuation! He is weak; his nerves and senses are shattered by this attack. He has been influenced by her and the priest. My dear Helen, I fear your interests will suffer."

"Do you really think so?" said Helen, growing pale.

"Mr. Jerrold, you will please to come up for a moment. My uncle desires to see you particularly," said May, appearing at the door.

"That is a designing girl, depend on it," whispered Mrs. Jerrold, as her son left the room; "and now, Helen, I must warn you. Be on your guard, and do not feel hurt when I say, that if she should have succeeded in cozening your uncle to revoke his will in her favor, my poor son's happiness will be wrecked for ever. He is not rich, you know, and is too proud to marry a woman whom he cannot support in good style; consequently, this marriage, which, under existing circumstances, gives us so much pleasure, would then have to be broken off."

"Mr. Fielding was with him, and I heard them talking about a will, but whether it was the old, or a new one, I could not determine," said Helen, becoming very white.

"Hush! not another word; Walter is coming down. But remember what I tell you. Well, dear Walter?"

"I think Mr. Stillinghast is sinking, but he is perfectly himself," said the young man, in a low tone, as he seated himself. "He is much changed, and speaks in broken sentences."

"He knew you?" asked Mrs. Jerrold.

"Perfectly. He told me that our recent engagement was all secured, and begged me to keep up the credit of the old house; spoke of our marriage, dear Helen, and gave me some advice, which I could not understand, about faith and baptism, and truth, and all that kind of thing, peculiar to old men who are dying," said the young man, with a light smile.

"Then he has not made another will?" asked Mrs. Jerrold.

"No, I fancy not; merely a codicil, if any thing. But be careful of yourself, Helen; don't sit up at night—it will hurt your eyes and good looks. May Brooke is an indefatigable nurse," said the worldly man.

"Farewell, sweet Helen," whispered Mrs. Jerrold, embracing her. "We shall soon have you to ourselves. But be on the qui vive; there may be something, you know, under all this."

"Another will!" thought Helen, after they went away; "if another exists, different from the first——well—I see no reason why a whim should wreck my happiness." Then, tempted and scheming, she sat motionless for hours. Alas! for the soul which of its own free will, unmoors itself from the Rock of Ages, to drift away on dark and uncertain seas; who, lured away by the sun-gilt mirage, throws down the cross, scorns the thorny crown, and despises Calvary, to perish at last miserably in the arid desert! Although Helen had never been a pious Catholic, she had always declared herself one, and resisted every open attack on her faith; but now, insidious scorn, worldly interests, and human love had entered her soul, and poisoned it, and for a season they would triumph.

"Uncle Stillinghast wants you, dear Helen," said May, tapping her on the shoulder.

"Me!" she exclaimed, starting up like a guilty thing.

"Yes, dear. He will receive the Holy Viaticum soon, and he wishes to speak with you before," said May, winding her arm around Helen's waist, and wishing, in the charity that filled her soul, that she could as easily lead her back, weeping and penitent, to the foot of the cross.

"Come hither, child," said the old man, turning his feeble eyes towards her. "I fear—I have—assisted—encouraged you—to forsake your faith. God—forgive me—for my ignorance and sin. But hear me. I am dying—hear me testify to the saving and divine truths of that faith—and repent you—repent ere—it is—too late for ever. It is an awful thing—girl—to live away—from—the—true fold of Jesus Christ;—but how horrible—is it—to forsake it! Father Fabian—come closer," he said, feebly, while he placed Helen's hand in that of the clergyman, "bring—watch her—guide her, until she is saved."

"My poor child! you will not forsake your religion; you dare not peril your salvation by severing, with sacrilegious hand, the ties which unite you to JESUS CHRIST, as a member of His glorious body?" asked the priest, in a tone of blended pity and authority.

"Oh, no, no!" sobbed Helen, quite overcome by the scene. "I am very young, and love the world. I have never intended to forsake my religion entirely. I intend, at some early day, to go to confession. I have only procrastinated."

"Of course, my dear child, you will return to your duty," said Father Fabian; "you cannot do otherwise, unless you wish to seal deliberately your eternal perdition."

"You will marry—marry Jerrold," gasped Mr. Stillinghast; "but do—not—forget—that your prevarications—may ruin his soul—with your own. Are—you willing—to assume the responsibility?"

"Oh, sir, this is horrible!" exclaimed Helen, falling on her knees beside the bed.

"But true," added Father Fabian, at a sign from Mr. Stillinghast, who leaned back exhausted. "It is a perilous thing, under the most favorable circumstances, for a Catholic to wed with a Protestant. If the Catholic has not the patience of a saint, and the constancy of a martyr, scandal must come. Concessions must be made—vital principles too often yielded, and at last the unbeliever triumphs—not over the mere human will, and the weak nature of his victim, but over religion—and exultingly thinks how frail are the defences of this faith, which is called divine. Then, confirmed in his errors by your betrayal, his whole life is a scoff at Eternal Truth; while you, bringing forth children, who, instead of becoming heirs of Christ, become aliens from His fold, while your sin—your treachery—your apostasy will, like an onward billow, roll through future generations, until it dashes itself, with its black abominations, at the feet of the Eternal Judge. But, my dear child, through the mercy of God, and your own example, you may win this wandering soul to embrace the truth: at any rate, you may, by your pious constancy, plant the seeds of a better life in his soul, which may bear the fruits of salvation."

"It was—my act. I would undo it—but—it is too late—too late. Helen—forgive me."

"Dear uncle, do not say so.—I have nothing to forgive," she sobbed.

"Time will come, I fear—when—you will not think so. Go, now—I—have provided—for you—see—that you provide—for the eternal future," he said, with difficulty.

Helen kissed the hand already shadowed by the approach of death, and left the room, weeping.

"It is horrible!" she exclaimed, almost shrieking, as she threw herself on the bed, after she reached her apartment. "I hope he will not send for me again. I never loved this harsh, bitter old man, nor do I intend to risk my happiness by promising impossibilities. I'll go to confession, and all that, when I am ready, and not before. Walter detests Catholics; and if he thought I was still one, he'd never wed me. But it cannot last long—I shall soon be free; and, once Jerrold's wife, I can practise my religion if I choose. At any rate, I shall die a Catholic!"

It was midnight. All was silent in the death-chamber. The night-taper was placed behind a screen; and the fire-light flickered with a tremulous motion on the richly-carved, antique furniture, black and polished by age, and creeping upwards, threw long, wavering shadows on the wall. Amidst this solemn twilight, a table spread with white, which supported a crucifix, wax lights, and flowers, stood near the sick man's bed. A guest was expected ere long—a divine and honored guest was coming into the shadowy room where death held his awful presence, to strengthen and console that penitent spirit on is passage to eternity, when, like Elias, after his miraculous repast, strengthened and courageous, it would walk with humble, but sure steps towards its eternal Horeb!

May knelt by her uncle's side, with his hand clasped in hers, praying, and whispering sweet words of cheer. A footstep sounded on the pavement; it ascended the steps, and Father Fabian, accompanied by Helen and Doctor Burrell, who had been waiting in the parlor below, came in, bearing with him the Lord of Life. May lit the candles on the temporary altar, and retired with the rest for a few moments, while Father Fabian held a brief conversation with the penitent old man, touching the affairs of his conscience; then he summoned them in; and while they knelt, he arranged himself in surplice and stole, and in a solemn, impressive manner, began the sacramental rite. "'Behold him—behold the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world,'" he said, holding up the sacred host. "'He that eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood,' says the Redeemer, 'hath ever-lasting life, and I will raise him up on the last day.' The day of life was almost spent, when you came to him; night was coming on, but He, in the plenitude of His divine compassion, turned you not away, but gives you a princely reward—even Himself. Like the Prodigal, destitute and naked, you return, and receiving you, He spreads a mystic feast, in which He gives you heavenly food; and while the shadow of death falls around you, lo! He comes to go with you towards those dismal portals, and admit you to a region of probation and everlasting hope. Humbly confiding, and strong in faith, receive Him, not as a representation or mere memorial of the Son of God, but Jesus Christ himself. 'Corpus Domini nostri Jesu;'" and, as Father Fabian pronounced the words, he administered the bread of Eternal Life to the dying man. What could have changed that dark, repulsive face so entirely, that it looked an image of humility? Was it death? Was it memory? Or was it the effect of new and divine influences? It was surely nothing mortal. He lifted his eyes to Father Fabian's face—then turned them in search of May. She was by his side in a moment.

"Unworthy—unworthy," he whispered; then they saw his lips moving in silent and earnest prayer. Dr. Burrell had regarded the whole scene with interest and awe. The whole scene preached to his inmost soul. Doctrinal arguments and learned polemics, he could have tilted with, word for word; but here were facts, and realities and influences, which disarmed and defied all that was skeptical in his nature. The dying man—the priest of God—that young and fragile girl, illustrated by their acts a faith which, though mysterious to him, could be nothing less than divine; but Father Fabian, ignorant of the thoughts which were passing, like ripples of light, through his mind, approached, and asked him in a low voice, "how long he supposed Mr. Stillinghast might linger?"

"He may live until noon to-morrow," said the doctor.

"He may," said Father Fabian, "but I fear not, however, God's holy will be done!"

During the night Mr. Stillinghast's mind wandered. May, overcome by fatigue, had leaned her head on the bed-side, and fallen into a profound sleep. Helen, timid, and startling at every sound, sat near him, fearing to move, lest it should rouse him.—Her guilty, selfish thoughts, terrified and haunted her like phantoms.

"There are—some papers," murmured the old man, without turning his head, and thinking he spoke to May, "papers which I wish burnt."

"Shall I get them, sir?" whispered Helen, while every bad, avaricious, and selfish instinct in her nature, started to sudden life; "where shall I find them?"

"On the second shelf—of the closet—where the wills are. They are records—of sorrows—and bitterness; but be careful, child—those two wills—the last one, which concerns you—is in—a white—envelope; the old one—in a brown wrapper. On the—second shelf; mind—the wills."

"Yes, sir!" whispered Helen, while her heart throbbed almost to bursting, and a wild gleam of triumph shot across her visage, giving it the fearful beauty of a demon. She would throw the new will amongst the condemned papers—it would be consumed with them; he would be silent and cold when it was missed, and could tell nothing; but then, might not she be suspected? No! she would not burn it—she would secrete it, and only destroy it in case she was disinherited. These thoughts rushed through her mind with a strange velocity, while she went towards the closet; and, just as she laid her hand on a package of papers, Mr. Stillinghast, suddenly turning, discovered his mistake.

"Come away—come away," he cried, with strange energy, "how dare you go there? Come away."

It was the work of an instant to snatch up the new will, thrust it into her bosom, and return, pale, trembling, and almost fainting, to his side.

"I thought you were May; call her here, Helen, then go away," he said, gently.

"Uncle Stillinghast wants you, May," said Helen, stooping over, and touching her.

"What can I do for you, uncle?" she said, instantly roused.

"I wish—you to burn—some papers—quick—quick—child. On the second shelf—there—in the small closet—where the wills are. Is she gone?"

"Helen? yes, sir; shall I bring all the papers—or are those you wish me to burn, numbered?" asked May, taking the candle with her.

"Yes, yes; numbered—1, 2, 3,—1796—1799—1800."

"Here they are, sir."

"Lay them there—under the blaze—so—so—so—perish—so blot out—so farewell the past. Forgive me the sins of my pride—of my ignorance—of my avarice—through, the bitter passion of Jesus Christ—forgive me—as I forgive—all," he murmured, as he watched the rapid destruction of these records of his life.

"Take a spoonful of this," said May, holding some brandy to his lips. He drank it, and cast a long, earnest, loving look on her, drew her face towards his, and kissed her forehead.

"The blessing of Almighty God abide with you, little one; hand me that, now," he said, looking towards the crucifix, "lay it here—where my eyes can rest on it—so." He never spoke again; but, with the image of the CRUCIFIED in view, his failing eyes gradually and softly closed. May thought he slept. So he did, but he slept the sleep of death.

Helen had fled up to her room, locked the door, and, with a white, pallid face, and trembling fingers, took the will from her bosom and opened it.

"To May—to May—to May—beloved niece—I knew it; but May shall never have it," she said, through her set teeth, as her eye ran rapidly over it. "They will think she burned it with those papers. I am saved—I shall marry Jerrold!" A mouse gnawing in her wainscot near her, caused her to start up and look around; and there, looking down from the cross, where the sins of the world had hung Him, was the image of His divine and woeful face. In the flickering light, the drops of blood appeared to flow from those cruel wounds, and the thorn-crowned head seemed to droop towards her. With a shuddering cry, she fell heavily to the floor. But the paroxysm passed away—she remembered her crime, and, fearful of detection—for already had conscience begun to scourge her—she flew to her trunk, and touching a spring in the side, a secret compartment slid back, revealing a narrow interstice between the body of the trunk and the exterior. In this she dropped the will, and fastened it securely. What and who instigated her to evil? Shall any dare say it was religion? She was a Catholic by birthright—but an alien from the practices of her holy faith by choice, and through human pride and worldliness—did its spirit lead her into crime? Judge of its effects by May's humble and earnest life. She was true and practical in her character, and acted out the precepts of her faith. Judge it, by the wonderful change it effected in the harsh and bitter nature of that hoary man, whom it excited to acts of perfect Christian virtue, and who, full of humble hope, had just breathed his last.

Who would measure the patriotism and purity of Washington, by the treason of Arnold? Dare not then, be guilty of the manifest injustice of judging the Church by the conduct of those, who, although bearing her sign on their foreheads, become traitors to her holy precepts, and scandalize her in their lives.



CHAPTER XV.

THE DISCOVERY.

The old man was far down in the shadow of the mountain; the day was well-nigh spent, when, by the grace of God, he fled into the fold of Faith for safety; and now, when all was over, the Church, like a loving mother, more tender of the repentant prodigal, who had fallen at her feet, and died, than of those who had never sullied, or torn their robes, and squandered their substance in the world's wild wilderness, poured out the riches of its solemnities around the altar, where the Divine Sacrifice was offered, with touching prayers, for his eternal repose.

Father Fabian officiated, and spoke eloquently of the nothingness of the world, the uncertainty of life, and the emptiness of riches. The cathedral was crowded by persons whom the news of Mr. Stillinghast's conversion had brought together, and who, regarding it as an extraordinary event, were desirous of witnessing the funeral ceremonies, and at the same time testify their respect for his memory. The most influential and wealthy of the class to which he belonged were present, and habituated as they were to look at every thing in a commercial point of view, their general opinion was that their old companion in trade had made a good bargain. "He was stern and harsh," they said, "but honest and upright; and too shrewd altogether to make a bad speculation in the end, and doubtless he had sought only his best interests in the step he had taken."

But in all that crowd there was only one heart which felt an emotion of grief, or had a single tear to drop on his coffin-lid. After a long life of toil, and solitude, and unlovingness, only one. May felt this while she wept, and wished she had been more patient and persevering in her love while he lived; but such regrets were useless now, except to kindle charity. She could do nothing which would be available to make up the deficiencies of the past, but incessantly beseech Jesus Christ, through which his bitter passion and death, and the Immaculate Mother, by the union she bore, body and soul, in the unspeakable agonies of the CROSS, to grant him a speedy release from suffering probation, to eternal refreshment, and light, and peace.

It was late when the funeral cortege returned to the city, and Mr. Fielding, perceiving that May was much overcome, and looked ill, declined going in, or attending to business that evening.

"I will be here at ten o'clock to-morrow morning. I know that my deceased client's affairs are all in such order, that there will be no delay in carrying out his wishes."

"Just as you think best, Mr. Fielding," replied May, wearily.

"What say you, Miss Stillinghast?" he said, addressing Helen.

"To-morrow will be quite time enough, sir," replied Helen, in a low tone.

Time enough, indeed! Well might she feel a sense of relief at its being deferred, when she knew that from the moment it was discovered that the will was missing, the temptations which had led her so deeply into sin would become demons of vengeance to torture and disturb her. As she went up with a heavy step to her room, an angel whisper suggested that there was time enough yet to undo the wrong she had committed. It startled and agitated her. "Can I bear these chains?" was the question. Weak, but never hardened in wickedness, she trembled, and was afraid of the penalties of her offence; and when she looked up, and saw by the flickering candlelight the image of the CRUCIFIED, and the sorrowful face of his Virgin Mother, both bending on her looks of tenderness and woe, which said, as plain as looks could say, "Child of my passion! soul, ransomed by my death! why wound me so deeply?" With a low cry, she threw herself on her pillow. "I shall never know peace again," her heart whispered; "I already feel the anguish of guilt; I begin to taste on earth the pangs of ever-lasting woe. This sin, with the human shame it will bring, will be an abyss between me and the Sacraments of the Church. Where shall I turn for peace? I can never bear this burden; it will madden me. I feel even now so guilty that I dare not lift my eyes to Walter's, for whose sake I do it. I feel an awe and dread steal over me when May comes near me as if she had Ithuriel's spear with which to touch me. I will do it," she said, with sudden resolution, and got up, and opened her trunk with the almost determined purpose of restoring the will to the place from which she had taken it. But oh, human frailty! the light falling on an open case of rare jewels, and some costly articles of her bridal trousseau, met her eye; then followed visions of splendor—of such power as wealth gives—of equipages and luxury, which swept away, like ocean-tides, the thoughts which her angel-guardian had written on her conscience. Hesitating no longer, a smile of triumph lit her face, and crowning the spectre with roses, and wrapping a drapery of pale illusions around it, she offered herself to a martyrdom of sin, to secure her worldly advancement.

"I suppose," said Mr. Fielding, the next morning to May, "that I shall find the will in that little closet, where your uncle kept his most important papers?"

"I presume so, sir. I placed it there at his request, in the place he designated, after you went away, the day it was written," replied May.

"That closet could tell strange things," said the lawyer, "if it could speak; but I believe I have come a half hour before the time appointed, as the others are not here."

"They are coming now. I see Mr. Jerrold and Father Fabian walking this way, and I think that is Dr. Burrell's carriage down the street," said May, looking out.

"All right. May, suppose you had Aladdin's lamp?" said the lawyer, rubbing his hands.

"I wouldn't have such a thing, sir," said May, quietly.

"Why, young lady?"

"I should be afraid of the monster it might evoke. Poor Aladdin had a miserable time of it from the beginning, in my opinion," said May.

"Riches have their cares," said Mr. Fielding.

"Cares without much peace," replied May.

Just then Mr. Jerrold, Dr. Burrell, and Father Fabian came in; and after exchanging the compliments of the day with the ladies and Mr. Fielding, prepared to execute the business which had brought them together. Mr. Fielding, accompanied by Mr. Jerrold, went up to get the will. He had long held the most intimate business relations with Mr. Stillinghast, and was the only man living who had ever been in his confidence. He knew the contents of every parcel and package of writing in the old desk and bureau, and could just tell where he was at fault now. There was only one will to be found, and that was the one which the deceased had declared should be null and void. The group below who were conversing on some interesting topic, were soon amazed to hear Mr. Fielding's voice in loud and excited tones at the head of the staircase. Clearing two or three steps at a time, he bounded into the room, followed by Mr. Jerrold, who was pale and silent. He was usually a grave and quiet person, and so governed by system, that the very hairs on his head might have been said to be arranged numerically.

"Here's a pretty thing come to pass!" he exclaimed, throwing a bundle of papers on the table; "a most beautiful kettle of fish. The last will and testament of the deceased is missing. Yes, sirs! can't be found. May, who was in your uncle's room the last night he lived? I say then, because the closet in which the will was placed was locked then, and the key has been in my pocket ever since. Who was there?"

"I was there, sir," said May, astonished at the uproar.

"Who else?"

"Helen was there for a little while."

"Who else?"

"The doctor came at eleven o'clock."

"The doctor didn't steal the will. Are you sure no one else came in afterwards?"

"Father Fabian administered the Holy Viaticum to my uncle. After that, no one except Helen and myself were there."

"Were you awake all the time?'

"I think not, sir. I believe I slept about ten minutes."

"Why didn't you sleep ten years, May?" exclaimed the irritated lawyer. "And you, Miss Stillinghast, please to state what occurred while your cousin slept. I suppose you kept awake, as you have heavy interests at stake?"

"Mr. Fielding, this lady is my affianced wife; oblige me by assuming a more gentle tone," said Walter Jerrold, taking his stand beside Helen.

"If she was your grandmother, sir, this matter must be sifted; and let me tell you, not only sifted here, but in open court, whither I shall carry it, unless the will is forthcoming. What occurred, Miss Stillinghast, during the ten minutes that little fool slept?"

"Only this, sir," said Helen, who felt supported by Mr. Jerrold's protection; "my uncle roused himself a little, and told me to take some packages of paper out of the closet, and put them under the grate. He said 'they were records of the past which he wished to perish with him.'"

"So—so!" said the lawyer, significantly.

"But," continued Helen, speaking in a clearer, and more assured tone, "I had just laid my hand on the knob to open the door, when he discovered that it was not May to whom he had been speaking, and in harsh tones he ordered me back, and commanded me to awaken May, and leave the room, which I did, for his terrible looks alarmed me so dreadfully that I could not remain."

"And you, May?"

"I got out the papers, sir, as my uncle directed, and burnt them, as he desired. Helen is right," replied May.

"And what did you burn?"

"Papers. Some in packages, and some in large envelopes, like that you hold in your hand," replied May, calmly.

"Why the deuce, then, didn't you put your head under the grate, and burn that too? You have burnt the will, that's clear: the will which would have made you the richest woman in Maryland. With those 'records of the past,' which my old friend Stillinghast ought to have eaten up years ago, you have burnt up legacies to orphans, benefactions to widows, and many noble charities with it—if it was burnt," added Mr. Fielding.

"Mr. Fielding," said May, lifting her hands with an earnest gesture, "If I thought I had through a careless, or heedless act, injured the interests of any living being, I should be truly miserable. I cannot comprehend the charges, or the cause of your unusual and ungentle excitement."

"You miserably innocent child! You poor, unworldly infant! I will endeavor to beat it into your comprehension, if you will listen. Your deceased uncle made two wills; one a few months ago, leaving the bulk of his fortune to his niece, Miss Helen Stillinghast, and to his other niece, May Brooke, the splendid life annuity of one hundred and fifty dollars. But on Thursday last having felt, by the judgment and grace of God, that so unequal a division was unjust, and being convinced that the said May Brooke would squander his gains precisely as he wished at that moment he had been doing all his life, viz., amongst the poor, destitute, and afflicted, he made another will, in which he devised the handsome sum of fifty thousand dollars, and some real estate, to Helen Stillinghast; and to May Brooke, his well-beloved niece and heiress, two hundred thousand dollars, this house, lot, and furniture, and other properties. But this will is missing—burnt up, it is supposed; and the first one is good in law, and I will read it, although I protest against its being executed until a thorough investigation is made, and I am well assured that there has been no foul play in the case," said the lawyer, impressively.

"Mr. Fielding," said Walter Jerrold, speaking out from the most honorable motives, "I feel as you do; and before reading the will, let us make a more patient and thorough search. We may have over-looked it. Neither Helen, nor myself, could ever feel satisfied, or happy, in the possession of property which, in the sight of Heaven, belongs to another."

"Sir, your sentiments do you honor. I accept of your suggestions," said Mr. Fielding, fixing a penetrating gaze on Walter Jerrold's countenance. "Come, May, you go with us, and help us to search high and low through the closet and bureau."

Father Fabian, who had come at the request of Mr. Fielding, had been a silent, but not unconcerned witness of this strange and unexpected scene, and looked for its issue with the deepest interest. Dr. Burrell exploded every now and then in opinions, which contained more feeling than legal reasoning, and consequently were of no importance. Helen's presence restrained all conversation on the subject while the others were absent from the room, and Father Fabian, having no time to drift idly on a single moment of his life, took a seat in one of the deep embrasures of the windows, and read portions of his "office" from the well-worn Breviary, which he drew from his pocket.

But the search for the lost will was in vain. Assisted zealously by Walter Jerrold and May, Mr. Fielding left no corner of the room unexplored. The bed and mattress—the tester and curtains, were turned, shaken, and unfolded. Every drawer and nook was inspected. The shelves of the little closet were removed, and the panel at the back and sides pried off, but in vain; and Mr. Fielding sat down quite exhausted, and folding his hands, exclaimed, or rather growled, "I congratulate you, May. It has all turned out precisely as your humility hoped it would, no doubt."

"Sir," said May, gently, "I am no worse off now than I was yesterday. I should have felt much encumbered by so large a fortune. I'm afraid it would have made me dizzy and foolish; indeed, sir, I feel quite unequal to the responsibility of such a stewardship. I feel deeply grateful to my poor uncle, and also to you, for your kind wishes in my regard, but, believe me, I am quite content for matters to stand just as they are, so far as I am concerned." Then breaking down, May broke out into a regular womanly fit of crying.

"May," said the lawyer, more gently, "when you took those papers out of that infer—that closet there, did you see those two wills lying together?"

"I saw nothing, sir, except the papers I went to get."

"And which you burned?"

"Which I burned up to the last scrap."

"Very well. You burned up the will too. You have been purified by fire with a vengeance. Do you still believe in guardian angels?"

"Just as firmly as ever, sir," she replied, fixing her clear eyes on him.

"Where was yours, pray, while you was doing just what the devil would have you?"

"Guarding me from evils to come, I trust. Oh, sir, it is very perilous to one's soul to be rich!" she exclaimed, with one of her sunlit expressions.

"Very well, again! 'Gad, how Plato would have loved you! But see here, you most uncommon of little bodies! I want just such a daughter as you are. My heart is desolate. All that I loved have passed away! Will you—will you come and keep house for me, like you did for old Stillinghast? Come—come, tell me at once; I am old and tottering," said the lawyer, trying to twinkle away a tear from his large gray eyes.

"Oh, dear me! dear, kind Mr. Fielding!" cried May, weeping on Mr. Fielding's shoulder; "I hope Heavenly Father will bless you for your kind intentions to a friendless orphan; but, indeed, sir, I cannot say—I don't think it would suit me to be dependent."

"Who wants you to be dependent?" roared out Mr. Fielding; "I'll hire you, if that will suit you better, to keep house, mend my stockings, and make tea for me; that will board you, and your splendid annuity will clothe you."

"I will tell you in a few days, sir. I have not quite decided what I shall do. I am so tossed and worried now I can think of nothing clearly," sobbed May.

"Let us go down, sir, and go on with the business which brought us here," said Mr. Fielding, while he lifted May's head gently up from his shoulder. "Whatever you decide on, May Brooke, remember that I am your protector, defender, and friend."

And so May was blamed for the loss of the will. Grieving more for the solid benefits which were lost to the poor and destitute,—for the alms which would have sent up incense to heaven in behalf of the soul of the giver,—May thought not of herself, only so far as to vow her energies, her labors, her life, to the good of those who, through her heedlessness, had been injured. She was not clear that she did not burn the will; she thought she had not done so, but she would not, for the world, have taken an oath to that effect. It is not to be supposed, however, that so shrewd a man as Mr. Fielding, and a man so experienced in all the devious and sinuous windings of the human heart as Father Fabian, were without their suspicions, but the one through policy, and the other through charity, forebore to express in words what they were not prepared to prove by legal facts.

May kept her plans to herself, and in her matter-of-fact way set the house in order, and arranged, day after day, every article in its particular place; and was scrupulously exact that not a scrap of old lumber, cracked china, broken spoons, or half-worn linen, should be missing on the day of the sale. Helen, quite unconcerned about such homely matters, dashed about in Mrs. Jerrold's carriage from morning until night, making splendid purchases, and indulged in all those expensive tastes which her natural love for the beautiful, and her undisciplined will, made so necessary to her happiness. Happiness! Could she in whose soul the poison of a hidden sin was already doing its work of restless fever, and unceasing torture, be happy? Alas! no; she felt that hence forth she was to know not rest on earth—beyond, she dared not look.

One evening—the eve of her bridal, she and May were together, once more, in the antique parlor. Helen, flushed, and splendidly beautiful;—May, calm, and pleasant, her cheeks and brow a little pale, but very lovely from the inner light reflected on them.

"May, are you still determined not to witness my marriage?" asked Helen, abruptly.

"Yes, Helen. The same barrier to my being present exists, I presume?"

"If my being married by a Protestant minister, is the apology for your absence, it does," replied Helen, with a decided air.

"Do not say apology, Helen; I do not pretend to offer one. It is your privilege to make your marriage, as far as you are concerned, sacramental; as a Catholic, it is your duty to do so. By acting otherwise, you disobey the Church, and place yourself in a position of great danger; and I do not choose to be implicated, by being present at the ceremonial."

"You are a most obstinate person;—but just as you please. What are your plans, if I may ask?" said Helen, feeling ill at ease.

"Very plain and honest ones, Helen," said May, measuring out the tea.

"I should not suspect you, May, of any other," said Helen, with a sarcastic manner; "but let us hear them, if you are not ashamed of them!"

"I am ashamed of nothing, Helen, but the guilt of sin. As to my plans, I do not know that you feel any genuine interest in them; and, as we shall not meet often, I suppose, it is scarcely necessary to unfold them."

"I have a motive in asking you, May—a good one, too. I wish to assist you," said Helen.

"I thank you, dear Helen, but I really do not require the least assistance. The sum my uncle left me, added to what I shall earn, will support me nicely," she replied.

"Earn! how? Shall you take in sewing?" screamed Helen.

"No. I have rented a nice room from my old friend Mrs. Tabb, who keeps the trimming store, and she has engaged to sell all the fancy knitting I can do. I am very well provided for, you perceive."

"I perceive nothing of the kind. It is positively ridiculous and disgraceful. What will the world say?" exclaimed Helen.

"The world, dear Helen! What business has the world with me? I owe it nothing but its just tribute of good citizenship. Oh, Helen! the world can soothe no pang when sorrow comes;—it can bring us no peace when death touches our hearts with his inexorable hand. No, no; there are no interests in common between the world and me."

"Gracious! what a fanatic!" said Helen, keeping down the wrestling and struggling of her heart; and, with a careless air, throwing back the long, bright curls, from her faultless face. "But listen to reason, May. You have been unfairly dealt with. I cannot reconcile the thing to either my pride or conscience. Walter feels as I do; and I can tell you we are extremely anxious to have you become an inmate of our family—to be in it, like myself, and feel free to act, and think, as you please. I can assure you, Walter has a prodigiously high opinion of you."

"Helen," said May, fixing those clear luminous eyes on the shifting countenance of her cousin, "your offer is, no doubt, kindly meant—but I cannot accept it. I would not, Helen, if you offered me half your fortune, live in a house so unblessed, as I fear—as I fear yours will be."

"And why such predictions?" asked Helen, haughtily.

"Can one who defies the spirit of God by disobedience—and—yes, I must say it—apostasy, expect blessings? And could I, who daily implore Heavenly Father to save me from temptation, thrust myself under its influence? Oh, no! no, Helen. Enjoy life after your fashion—whirl through its giddy circles, if such is your choice—but leave me in obscurity, to follow out the path which leads to something beyond the grave. But, dear Helen, let us part in peace—my prayers shall follow you; and I do beseech you, by the memory of the bitter passion and death of Jesus Christ, and the Dolors of His Immaculate Mother, to reflect, sometimes, on what should be the aims of an immortal soul!"

"You are a strange creature, May," said Helen, with a quivering lip, and a momentary impulse to throw herself at May's feet, and confess her guilt, which flitted away. "You will visit me sometimes, May?"

"If you are sick, or sorrowful, or repentant, send for me."

"But you will come and see how very happy I am.—Just once?"

"I cannot promise, Helen. Events will determine me," replied May, in a gentle tone.

"I have a favor to ask, May, which you cannot refuse!" said Helen, with a degree of timidity unusual to her; "will you grant it?"

"I hope so, Helen. What is it?"

"There is a picture in our room—a valuable old painting of the Mater Dolorosa. I always fancied there was a look of my mother, particularly about the eyes, in the countenance. I should like to have it copied by some first-rate artist to hang up in my chamber."

"Certainly, dear Helen. I would offer you the picture as a keep-sake, only it was highly prized by my father; and there are so many associations connected with it, which makes it very precious to me. Whenever you wish it, let me know, and I will go with it myself to the artist."

The next day they parted. Helen, arrayed in costly silks, laces, and jewelry, went forth a bride, and pronounced irrevocable vows, which made her the wife of a man, who, highly honorable in a worldly sense, was the professed enemy of the creed she professed.



CHAPTER XVI.

THE DEATH DREAM.

While the splendid festivities which succeeded Helen's marriage afforded a topic of conversation for the bon ton of three cities, May was quietly preparing to leave the old house, beneath whose roof she had learned so many lessons of self-denial, patience, and constancy; while she found time, each day, to pay her accustomed visit to old Mabel, who was approaching nearer and nearer her eternal rest. In serving her, May felt richly rewarded by the edification she derived from her simple piety, and the perfect resignation and joyful submission she evinced to the Divine Will. She was frequently astonished at the untaught eloquence of her expressions, and the beautiful humility of her language, when she spoke of the mercy of Almighty God, and lifted up her heart in joyful aspirations and effusions of love, to JESUS and MARY. The sacred and crucified, Humanity of ONE, and the suffering and anguish of the Humanity of the OTHER, seemed to condescend so entirely to her low estate, that the divinity of JESUS, and the measureless love of MARY, His Mother, were folded like a garment around her, and strengthened, and consoled, and brightened her path, as she approached the shadow through which she was to pass. And while May's inmost heart united its pure emotions in harmony with the mysteries of faith and grace, the words of an old English poet rippled through her mind in sweet accord with them.

"If bliss had lay in art or strength, None but the wise or strong had gained it; Where now by faith, all arms are of a length, One size doth all conditions fit. A peasant may believe as much As a great clerk, and reach the highest stature; Thus dost Thou make proud knowledge bend and crouch, While grace fills up uneven nature." [1]

When May had proposed to Mrs. Tabb to live, or, rather, lodge with her, nothing of its kind could exceed the enthusiastic reception she met. She poured out a torrent of exclamations and superlatives, which set all the rules of grammar at defiance. Then she broke out in the vociferous indignation at "the old miser's meanness," and last, and more outrageous than all, were her reflections on "upstartish misses, who drop from the clouds when no one expects them, and get all and every thing that them ought to had, who had been waiting, and bearing with people's meanness and ill-humor from their cradels up." And if, at that moment, she had not tilted her snuff-box, which was filled with Scotch snuff, over, under May's nose, whereupon both were seized with a paroxysm of sneezing, which was an effectual interruption to her tirade, she would have been silenced by a few charitable explanations.

When May returned home, she found Mr. Jerrold waiting in the parlor. He offered his hand; and there was such an air of sincerity in his manner, that it dispelled all May's reserve.

"I have brought Helen's love," he said, while he uncovered a magnificent bouquet, "and these roses and violets. They are the first of the season."

"These are very, very beautiful and fragrant, and I thank you most heartily for them. How is Helen?"

"She is looking well, but she falls occasionally into fits of despondency, which is either the result of much fatigue and excitement, or some cause which she does not wish to explain. I wish you would come and live with us. Helen needs a sister," said the young man.

"Dear Mr. Jerrold," said old-fashioned May, "I have tried to find my way to Helen's heart, but, to be frank with you, our ways lie too differently. Helen will have none of my friendship on those terms on which I alone can give it. But you do not understand it all.—You are a Protestant, and wish to see Helen one; therefore, I should be a discord in your house, because, if there, my duty would not allow me to hold my peace."

"Helen is too young and beautiful to mope about religion," he said, carelessly. "When she gets older, and is more tied down by domestic cares, it will be necessary and respectable for her to be religious; and then, egad, if she wishes it, I'd as lief she'd be a Catholic as any thing else."

"Helen will be ill-prepared, I fear, for a life of pious example, if she devotes all of her energies now to the world. Grace, you know, sir, is not a human thing which can be bought with money, or worldly eloquence," replied May, earnestly.

"Helen has no truer friend, I believe, on my honor, May, than yourself; but, really, she must enjoy life a little longer; then I will turn her over to you and her father confessor;—but I came for a purpose, to-day."

"A friendly one, I am sure!" said May.

"Yes. I saw Mr. Fielding this morning, and consulted him about the expediency of your remaining here, as you wont live with us. We wish the place kept up;—it is a curioso in its way—an antique with all its appurtenances; and I do not know any one more in keeping with it, than cousin May."

May laughed. "You think that, as we harmonize so exactly, we should be a mutual protection to each other?"

"Precisely. Will you remain?"

"No. It would be pleasant on some accounts, but would not be at all suitable on others. A residence here would very materially interrupt the objects and aims of my life, in which pursuit I can alone be happy."

"Dodona's Cave! How oracular!" said Mr. Jerrold, laughing outright. "Explain, dear Sopho, your argument!"

"Will you understand? But how can you, a Protestant, understand the motive power of a Catholic heart?" said May.

"Proceed. I will give you oracle for oracle. I am a Protestant in principle, but not in fact," was the light reply.

"I have always felt that while I ate no idle bread I was of some use on earth. I have always been accustomed to an active life. Labor gives one an opportunity of learning many virtues;—patience amongst them, and not the least, humility. I should have nothing to do, here. The necessity for exertion would be gone; and, really, I am too much afraid of myself, to trust to exigencies. No, no! I must have an aim which will require the exercise of my most active energies. Dependence will not suit me."

"That is it," broke in Mr. Jerrold. "Pride is at the bottom of the whole argument. May! this moment you are as proud as the devil!"

"Oh, sir! pray do not think that. I really feel extremely grateful for your kind intentions," said May, looking distressed. "I have other reasons, which I cannot very well explain, for choosing the way of life that I have. Only please to understand this, that I should be very miserable, if I were placed, now, in a situation which would leave me without responsibility."

"You are a paradox. You ought to be ten feet high, May, with such a will as yours. You won't live with us, because we are so wicked that you'd have to preach to us about our sins; and you won't live here, because you're afraid you'll get as bad as we are. Well, well! be happy your own way, and come and see Helen when you can," said Mr. Jerrold, laughing, as he got up to leave.

"I feel your kindness deeply, Mr. Jerrold. I hope you are not hurt or offended?"

"Not in the least. I think you are bearing your wrongs like a saint; and I wish I was only half as good," replied Mr. Jerrold, shaking hands with her.

"Tell Helen that I am thankful for the flowers, and will offer them this evening, with a prayer for her conversion, to OUR MOTHER," said May.

"I thought her mother was dead and buried!" thought Mr. Jerrold, as he walked down the street. "What a curious little soul she is!"

After dinner, May went to inform Father Fabian that she had declined Mr. Fielding's offer, and would remove to Mrs. Tabb's in the course of a day or two. But she saw him in the garden walk in the rear of the house, walking to and fro, reading his office, and went into the church, where she offered the rich bouquet Helen had sent her, on the shrine of Our Lady, the refuge; after which, she said, with great devotion, a decade of the rosary, for her conversion. Father Fabian was standing in the door when she returned, and watched her, as she approached, with a grave, but quizzical, expression of countenance.

"I am glad to see you, my child, in your long dresses yet," he said, holding out his hand, kindly.

"Sir," said May, looking perplexed.

"I did not feel sure but that you had adopted the new school so much in favor with your sex, judging from all that I have heard," he replied, laughing.

"What new school? What have you heard, Father?" she asked, anxiously.

"The strong-minded women's-school!"

"I see that you have some jest at my expense, and I must be patient until it is explained," said May, sitting down.

"Yes, yes; be patient."

"Will you not tell me, Father, what I have done?"

"May, do you believe that you burned the will the night your uncle lay dying?" asked Father Fabian, abruptly.

"I do not think I did. I may, however, have done so."

"Mr. Fielding intends to endeavor to set aside the will which was found. He had good legal reasons to expect that he can secure you an equal share of your uncle's estate with your cousin."

"I hope he will do no such thing, sir. I am quite satisfied."

"But he and the witnesses to the other will are not, because there are very important public and religious interests involved in its loss."

"If that is the case, I can only object so far as I am individually concerned," said May; "but I hope most earnestly that Mr. Fielding will let the matter rest a short time longer—a few months, for the longer I think of it that I did not burn the will, and I feel a presentiment that it will come to light," said May, earnestly.

"And you will not give your consent, as one of the heirs, to go to law?"

"Not yet—not yet, Father. Let us wait a little. If it is mislaid, it may be found; if any one has wronged me by secreting it, they may repent."

"Was there ever such a wild goose on earth?" said Father Fabian, laughing. "You know as much about the world now, May, as you did eighteen years ago, when you were just two months old."

"But, Father, you have always taught me to have faith in God, and told me in all difficulties to have recourse to him and the Blessed Virgin. If it is for his glory, and the good of his creatures, the lost will will be found," she said, earnestly.

"You are right, my child. God's holy will be done," said Father Fabian, lifting his bounet-carre from his brow. "But, having turned a theological point against me, can you explain your most obstinate refusal to accept of Mr. Fielding's and Mr. Jerrold's kind offers of a home, where ease, luxury, and elegance would attend you? You seem determined to take a stand against your interests in every way. What rational objection can you oppose to their offers?"

"Dear Father, are you displeased with your poor child?" asked May, with humility.

"To be frank, my dear child, I consider your conduct a little unusual," said Father Fabian, looking down to conceal the smile that brightened his eyes. "How could you act so?"

"Simply and frankly because I wished to be free."

"Woman's rights! As I suspected, woman's rights!" exclaimed Father Fabian, lifting his hands with horror.

"Soul's rights, Father! Soul's rights!" said May, in an impassioned manner. "I could not live with Helen in peace without spiritual bondage. Her way of life would leave me no neutral ground to stand on. She has forsaken her religion; every act of hers is therefore open rebellion against God, and I must have raised my voice in one incessant clamor had I lived with her. Had I gone to dear, kind Mr. Fielding, he might have made demands on time which I have devoted to religion, which my gratitude might have disposed me to yield to. But I am grateful to them all for their kind intentions, and I am sure, if their friendship is real, they will be happier to know that I am happy in my own way."

"Is this all, May?" asked Father Fabian, who suspected her of entertaining other reasons still.

"I had hoped to keep it secretly, but I have another reason. You know that I am blamed for the loss of that will, which made noble bequests to the poor and destitute. I may be guilty; I cannot pretend to say that I am not, therefore, as a sort of reparation to those afflicted ones, who would have been relieved by my uncle's bounty, of which I perhaps, by an act of carelessness have deprived them, I have made a vow to dedicate my life, my energies, and will, to the service of the poor in active and laborious works," said May, with a grave and humble manner.

"Your motives are good, my child; only let us be careful not to seek our own gratification too much, either temporal or spiritual, in our works. I certainly acquit you of all modern chivalry. I will see Mr. Fielding about that affair this evening, and request him to postpone it."

"If you please, Father," said May, over whose countenance a shadow had fallen.

"What is the trouble now, little one?" asked Father Fabian.

"Have I been presumptuous, Father? Have I been lifting up my hands to heaven like the Pharisee, and thanking God that I am not like others? Oh, Father, I think I should rather die than be self-righteous!"

"I think not, my child. Only we must not rely too much on our intentions, which may be, morally speaking, good, but spiritually bad, if they are not united with great humility. I should be false to your soul's interests if I dealt not plainly with you. But go now to your old pensioner. I administered to her this morning the last rites of the Church, and think it more than possible that before another sunrise she will have passed away from this life of mourning and gloom."

"I thought yesterday evening, when I was there, that her sufferings were nearly at an end," said May, wiping off a tear.

"Her dispositions are perfect," continued Father Fabian. "Oh, in the last hour, if the soul is right before God, how vain appears all human learning! how little the wisdom of ages! how less than nothing the splendor and grandeur of riches! Soon—very soon, that ignorant and poverty-stricken old negro, who, like Lazarus, has been lying at the door of the rich, great world, humbly thankful for the crumbs she has received, will be endowed with knowledge and wisdom; she will read and have solved mysteries which the greatest sages of antiquity, and the profoundest philosophers of modern times have shrunk from, overwhelmed with the vastness of their conception. She will have looked on the face of Him who suffered for her, and be, through his divine mercy, and the merits of his bitter passion, admitted into eternal rest. Oh faith, mistress of learning! Oh humility, without which the learned shall not enter heaven! Possess our hearts—reign in our souls for ever. But go now; tell her I will see her in the morning, unless she is beyond my reach."

It was a clear, soft evening. The sky, as the sun declined, was filled as with the brightness of flashing wings, while the golden light broke in ripples around the isles of cloud that hung over the deep. The flute-like whistle of the blue-bird, and the odor of violets, and young budding leaves, were in the air together—music, light, and fragrance, like harmonies from the spirit-land, blending softly together. The earth was clothed in its new garment, for spring had risen from the grave, and its resurrection was glorious. Over the ways of the city, and in the suburban lanes; in the glens and dells of the forest, and the distant slopes of the blue hills; over the mounds of the silent dead, where the germs of infinite life are planted,—where, like pearls, lying beneath the earth-billows, they will sleep in their sealed shells until, from the eastern gates of heaven, springs the eternal dawn, which shall gather them in, clothed with new light, to be set amongst the crown-jewels of God,—the sweet clover, the tender grass, and wild flowers were springing together. In flowed all this sweetness down to the depths of May's soul, as she walked along, and led her feelings sweetly up to that clime of which the fairest and purest of earth-born things are only the gray shadows; and rejoicing in nature and high hope, she came in sight of Mabel's cottage. She saw the child who lived with her, and called her grandmother, playing about the door, and beckoning to her, inquired "how she was?"

"I'se right well, missy. Granny's asleep."

"How is she?" again, asked May.

"She's heap better, missy; she bin sleep dis ever so long."

"Very well. You can play out here a little longer; but don't go away, and I will go in and wait until Aunt Mabel wakes," said May, giving her some ginger-bread she had bought for her. The child, glad of its freedom, remained watching the birds and clouds.

May opened the door, and entered softly. She went towards the bed, and saw that the mysterious and awful change, which tells that the inexorable decree is gone forth, and the "arrow fastened," was fast settling on old Mabel's features. Yet there was nothing uncouth or grotesque in that shrivelled and swarthy face, because FAITH, which leads death captive, had shed over them a supernatural calm, which ennobled them with a solemn sweetness. Her poor old hand, so long withered and helpless, dropped beside her; the other, around which her rosary was wrapped, lay on her breast. May took off her bonnet and scarf, and knelt down to say the dolorous mysteries of the rosary. "Remember, oh most loving Mother, by these, thy own dolors, the soul of thy poor servant, who will soon be engaged in her last earthly conflict. Rescue, oh Mother of Sorrows, through thy intercession, and the bitter passion and death of thy Divine Son, from the foes who lie in wait for her soul, and conduct her under thy safeguard to eternal light and peace." Thus prayed the Christian maiden by the dying slave; caste, race, and fetters were falling together into the deep abyss of death. She would soon know the glorious freedom of one of the heirs of Christ.

"Oh, lady! oh, beautiful missis! this is a mean place for your crowned head and shining robes to come into. And who are those beside you, glorious and fair?" murmured the old woman, suddenly stretching out both arms towards the door, and looking earnestly beyond May at something unseen.

"Queen of Heaven! how is it that you come to me? I am not worthy to lift my eyes to yours, yet you are here," she continued, while an awe, unspeakable and sweet, fell on May, who did not move.

"To deliver my soul, and conduct me to the feet of your Divine Son?" she said, after a short pause, as if some one had answered her, and she repeated the words.

"Oh grace! oh splendor! oh sweetness! oh clemency! oh hope!" she exclaimed. "If I could, I would be worthy of such love—I would spread gold and precious things at your feet; but I am only a poor old negro, covered with patches and shreds. But fill my heart with all the love it can hold, and take that—it's all I've got to offer." Again, as if listening, she paused, then, with a smile of rapture, cried out, "Love Jesus! love Mary! Oh, Jesus! oh, Mary! my soul is filled with Jesus and Mary!" Then her eyes closed, her hands sunk down, and she seemed to sleep again.

"Was it a vision? Was it a dream?" thought May; "or had she been in the presence of MARY and the angels of heaven? Had they surrounded her, as she watched and prayed by the side of the dying woman? She could not tell, but she felt that the air had been stirred by heavenly visitants. Ere long old Mabel awoke, and looked wildly and eagerly around her; then her eyes settled on May's countenance.

"How do you feel, Aunt Mabel, now?" she asked, in a low voice.

"Honey, I've had a dream! Such a glorious dream! I thought the door opened, and the Blessed Virgin, surrounded by bright spirits, came in, and stood around me; and it seemed to me that I was so full of joy, that I lifted up my old shrivelled arm to welcome her. Oh, my dear missis! I never see so much brightness and beauty together before, and never heard such joyful sounds. It seemed like music talking. And, honey, what is stranger than all, I saw you there, and I thought the Blessed Virgin took a white lily out of her bosom, and laid it on your head, and smiled. Oh, missy, wasn't it comforting to have such a dream?"

"It was a glorious dream, Aunt Mabel!" said May, while the blood, with rapturous motion, bounded through her veins, and filled her face with a glowing hue. "You seemed to see it all. Your eyes were open, and your lame arm was really stretched out towards the door, as if to welcome some bright company. Oh may that white flower, which you saw laid on my head, go down, and take deep root in my heart."

"It will, honey. Let me kiss your hand, and lay mine on your head, little missy. You've been my earthly helper, and your Heavenly Father will be yours. My blessing aint of no account, but I give it to you with all my feeble powers. May you be blessed in every thing in this world and the next. It's growing mighty dark now, honey; hold my hand, till it grows light again." With a last effort, she lifted May's hand to her lips, and kissed it; then a deep lethargy stole over her. May said the prayers for the departing soul, and recommended the dying one to the tender care of the Immaculate Mother of Jesus. A ray from the setting sun, stealing through the trees without, flowed into the shaded room, and rested on her pillow in flickering radiance; and ere it passed away, her spirit had sped from its tenement of clay to undergo the judgment which, after death, every soul must stand. It was a sweet falling asleep with her, so gently had death released her from the bonds of flesh. An hour passed by, and still May knelt, absorbed in prayer, and earnest intercession for the departed. It was growing dark, and rising up, she straightened and composed old Mabel's limbs; and covering her face, went out and called the child, and bid her go for one of the neighboring women to come in, and prepare the body for interment. She looked in the chest for the grave-clothes which the old woman had kept and guarded as her only treasure for years and years; and finding every thing needful in the parcel, gave it to the woman, with strict injunctions to arrange every thing with the greatest decency, and watch by her through the night. Promising to be there early in the morning to pay and relieve her, she hurried to Father Fabian to leave word with him, and request him to make the necessary arrangements for the interment—the expenses of which she wished to defray herself. It was quite dark when she got home, and feeling wearied and overcome, she retired early, filled with gratitude for the privilege she had enjoyed, of seeing one so good and humble as old Mabel die. Death had assumed to her a benign and holy aspect; she almost felt,

"There is no Death. What seems so is Transition. This life of mortal breath Is but the suburbs of that Life Elysian, Whose portals we call Death." [2]

The next day Father Fabian, in the presence of a few poor neighbors, performed the last touching rites of the Church over the inanimate body of old Mabel—the body which, "sown in dishonor, would be raised in honor" to eternal life. May walked beside the coffin as it was borne to the grave, nor left the spot until the last clod of earth was thrown on it; then, when it was deserted by all else, as constant in death as she had been in life, she kneeled down beside it, and offered up fervent prayers for her eternal repose.

[1] Herbert.

[2] Longfellow.



CHAPTER XVII.

REMORSE.

It was near day-dawn. A splendid carriage, drawn by a span of thorough-paced horses, whose black coats shone in the moonlight like jet, while they champed their silver bits, and blew the white froth with the breath of their proud nostrils out like spray over the rich trappings of their harness, rolled with a rapid, but almost noiseless motion, through one of the broad streets of a fashionable quarter of the city. The light which flickered down from the silver coach-lamps revealed magnificent hangings of brocade and velvet, looped back with twisted cords of silk and silver thread. The driver and footman were clad in livery which corresponded with the elegant style of the equipage. They turned in a broad, aristocratic-looking square, and drew up in front of a handsome and spacious mansion. The officious footman sprung to the pavement, swung back the carriage-door, and held out his gloved hand to assist a lady, who was within to get out.

"No need, sirrah," she said, haughtily, as she stepped lightly out, and ran up the broad marble steps of the mansion, where, heedless of her stainless and delicate gloves, she seized the bell-knob, and rung violently. During the few moments she waited for admission, her foot, clad in white satin, beat the threshold with a light, but restless motion. Her brocade-robe about which costly laces hung in gossamer clouds, rustled down in rich folds to the marble floor of the vestibule, while with every pulsation of her heart, and movement of her body, gems flashed out in the moonlight. Long, shining curls, slightly tossed by the night breeze, floated down over her cheeks and bosom, half concealing the rare beauty of her face. It was Helen! The door was at length opened, and attended by her drowsy maid, she hurried up to her chamber. It was a lofty, and beautifully proportioned room, filled with every thing the most luxurious fancy could desire, and arranged with fastidious taste and elegance. Flowers were heaped up in Eastern vases, near the open window, and deep-cushioned chairs, and softly pillowed lounges, covered with pale, saffron-colored silk, were arranged here and there throughout the gorgeous room. The low, and exquisitely carved French bedstead was half hidden by a flowing drapery of embroidered lace, which, depending from a small hoop of mother-of-pearl in the ceiling, hung like a tent over it. The toilette-table was elaborately furnished. Between its twisted rosewood pillars, which were inlaid with pearl, in graceful device, swung an immense oval mirror, set in a frame of the same materials. Near it stood a small marble table, supported by an alabaster Psyche, around which were strewn perfumes, jewel-cases, and various costly articles for toilette uses. On each side of the mirror projected gas-burners in the form of clusters of lilies—the flowers being of the purest porcelain, and the rest highly gilt and embossed. Helen threw herself down wearily in a large chair, while her maid turned up the light, which was burning dimly, to a brighter flame, which revealed more minutely the splendors of the room. Over the toilette-glass hung a picture—there were no others on the frescoed walls; it was set far back in a superb oval frame of ivory and gold, and as the brilliant glare of lights shot upwards, an exquisite painting of the Mater Dolorosa could be distinctly seen—a strange companion, or presiding genius, or ornament for the shrine for pride and vanity.

"You can go now, Elise," said Helen languidly.

"Shall I not undress madame's hair, and put her jewels away?" inquired the Frenchwoman with an air of amazement.

"No—leave me at once," she replied, impatiently.

"Deshabillez-vous," muttered the woman. "To tell me go! I who was fille-de-chambre to une Grande Duchesse! Mon dieu! la chaleur est tres-incommode! Ingrat—parvenu! Un—deux—trois! Il est temps de se coucher." Helen had just touched her repeater, and with its soft, silvery chime, it struck three. Elise hurried away from the door, where she had lingered, in hopes of being recalled, to comfort herself with a glass of eau-de-sucre, ere she returned to her pillow. Helen got up and locked her door, and began to walk to and fro. By and by the past, mingling with the present, made such a torrent of bitter memories seethe and sweep through her desolate soul, that she wrung her hands, and rushed backwards and forwards like one mad. In her wild mood, she saw the glitter of her jewels, as she swept by the large mirror of her toilette. She paused, gazed at herself a moment, then, with a frantic gesture, tore the diamonds from her hair and neck, and with a bitter laugh dashed them from her. Her beautiful face, as white as the alabaster Psyche near her, was full of wild and demoniac expressions, which chased each other with the velocity of clouds over her countenance. Remorse, anguish, and despair settled like a brooding tempest on her forehead; then wringing her hands, she again commenced her walk.

"A lie," she muttered, "a splendid, living lie. Widows and orphans wronged—the poor defrauded—the church wounded and robbed by thee, Helen! A husband who trusts me—who believes me—honorable and true himself—confiding in a nature utterly false—and leaning on a heart rotten to the core! Oh, Helen! eternal loss will surely be thine—so it is better to die ere madness comes, and divulges the dark secret. Walter is away; he will be here at sunrise. Better for him to find thee, Helen, calm and cold in the beauty of which he is so proud, than live to know that thou art all a lie—which he would tear away from his honest heart, and throw to the very dogs!"

While these dark thoughts swept through the heart of the tempted and despairing one, she unlocked a secret drawer in her jewel-case, and took from it a small silver casket, which she opened. It contained a crystal flacon, filled with a liquid, transparent, and of a pale rose-color. "One drop of it," she whispered, "one single drop, and without a pang, this unrest and anguish will be over. That which is beyond cannot be worse!" Just then a strong current of air rushed in through the open window, and blew the jet of gas, in a stream of brilliance, up towards the picture of the Mater Dolorosa. The sudden glare arrested the attention of the wretched, sin-stained one. She looked up, and her eyes, glaring with the frenzy of evil, met the ineffably tender and sorrowful face of MARY; which, with its tears, and expression of submissive and sublime woe, its folded hands, its meek brow, seemed bowed towards her. She paused, while, with the distinctness of a whisper, these thoughts passed through her soul. "Wretched one, forbear! Wound not again my Divine Son, whose body is already covered with stripes and bruises for thee. Open not my heart again, which is already pierced for thy salvation! Hope! It was for such as thee that my Son, Jesus, suffered on the cross; for such as thee, that I immolated my soul, my nature, my maternal love, on that bloody altar with Him."

"Was it the wind? No! the sweetest winds of earth could not have drawn such language from the corrupt and frenzied chords of my spirit. No demon whispered it!" exclaimed Helen, still gazing upwards. "Was it a heavenly warning for me, the most miserable outcast on the wide earth?" The mad tempest was dispersed; it rolled back its sullen clouds from her soul; and, with a trembling cry for mercy, she staggered towards a large chair, into which she fell, fainting and exhausted.

As the sun was rising, Walter Jerrold, who had travelled all night from New York, whither he had been on business of importance, opened his house-door with a private key, and entered without disturbing the servants. He ran up to Helen's door, and finding it locked, opened his dressing-room, which adjoined hers, with the same key, and pushing back the silk draperies which hung between them, went in, and, to his alarm and amazement, saw her, still arrayed in her festal robes sleeping in the chair, into which she had fallen. Her face was as white as the drooping roses on her bosom, and her countenance wore an expression of pain.

"Helen!" he whispered, as he leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Helen, are you ill?"

"Will! It was burnt. Will!" she cried, starting up, and looking wildly around her. "Oh, Walter! I am so glad you are here at last. I have had a frightful dream."

"Helen, you are ill, I fear. What means this unwonted confusion;—have you been out, and just come in? What is the meaning of it all—and what is this?" he said, while he stooped down to pick up the crystal flacon which had dropped out of its case on the floor.

"Dear Walter, don't open it, for the world! It is a cosmetic. I am too white, sometimes, and touch my cheeks with it," exclaimed Helen, starting up; "do give it to me."

"No, Helen; my wife must be real in all things. I do not approve of artificial coloring; so, to save you from temptation, I shall put it out of your reach!" replied her husband, throwing the flacon out into the street. A lean, hungry dog, prowling about in search of food, rushed to the spot—hoping, no doubt, that it was a morsel from the rich man's table—but no sooner had his nose touched the spot, then, uttering a loud howl, he fell dead.

"Helen! explain this mystery!" he exclaimed, grasping her hand, and drawing her to the window. "Are your cosmetics all poisons as deadly as that?"

"Walter! this is horrible! Poison? Why, Walter, it might have killed me!" she gasped, hiding her pallid face in his bosom.

"Helen, answer me, by the love and trust I bear you, did you know that the contents of that flacon were poisonous? Look up, dear Helen, and answer me, yes or no."

"No, Walter—on my honor, no. You have saved me from a horrible death," she replied, raising her head, and looking, with a strong effort into his eyes.

Thus was Helen driven, with scourges, by her task-master, the great tempter of souls, into slough after slough, from which, there was but one escape, and that lay through a rugged way, called REPENTANCE. But repentance, to her vision, was like a shoreless ocean, or a fierce deity to whose exacting nature she must sacrifice all that she held dear on earth, or perish. But her husband's love and esteem—her ill-gotten riches—her position—her luxuries! Could she live without them? If she could repent without making restitution, she would. But she well knew that such repentance would be fruitless. And thus, while, to the world, she moved calmly in her proud beauty, and was envied by the miserable, for the apparent happiness and splendor of her lot, a fierce beast was tugging at her heart-strings, more savage than that which tore the vitals of the boy of Lacedaemon. It was remorse.

"Helen!" said Walter Jerrold, calmly, "have you any grief or mystery hidden from me, my wife? I am like a helpless child, now in your hands; you may deceive me, and triumph in your concealment—but do not—do not, Helen, for God's sake, do it. Open your whole heart to me. I love you well enough to lift the burden, if there be one, from it, to my strong shoulders; and if—if—if—you have ever erred, let me hear it from no lips but your own."

Helen would have cast herself at his feet and told him all, but she feared he would spurn her—she longed to deserve the love of his manly and honest heart, but too weak, too much a coward, she shrunk from the agony and peril of a confession of her guilt. And Jerrold! was he not mad to expect to find a true and loving spouse in one who had cast off her allegiance to God?

"You are mistaken, Walter. Really, you have made quite a scene! I fear that you are romantic! For, really except when my nervous moods come over me, I am not aware that there is any thing unusual in my conduct. I am excessively nervous and excitable. I was dancing all night. I went with your mother to Mrs. Woodland's ball, which was a most brilliant affair. It was after two o'clock when I came home. You may be sure I was tired. Then I concluded to give you a little surprise by waiting up for you; and, as I looked very haggard, took out that precious cosmetic to tint my cheeks—all, dear Walter, to welcome you; but I was too much fagged, and went off into a sound, vulgar sleep!" said Helen, going to her toilette-table to adjust her hair, while she laughed as if the whole thing had been an amusing adventure. "It will learn you to run off again," she continued.

"Well, well—perhaps I am exacting; but understand one thing, Helle, about me," said Walter Jerrold, gravely, "I can bear with, and forgive errors—but deception, never."

"Walter!" said Helen, reproachfully, while tears suffused her fine eyes.

"Forgive me, Helle, if my words grate on your feelings. It is best for married folk to understand each other's peculiarities as early as possible. Shall I ring for Elise, for you are tangling and tearing your hair to pieces?"

"If you please. I will soon join you, if you will tell me where to find you," she replied, with assumed composure.

"At the breakfast table, I trust," he said, pleasantly; "I am thirsting for a cup of mocha, after my long journey."

"I suspect you will find it ready. I ordered them to have it ready early;—but see, Walter! have you any special engagement this forenoon?"

"Nothing very particular after ten, Helen. Why?"

"Why, you know that Matinees are all the rage now. I hold my first one to-day.—All the world have promised to come!"

"You don't want me, then?" he said, laughing.

"Of course I do. It will look proper for you to be present at the first. People can't be ill-natured then. I've heard a great many queer stories about the Matinees."

"It is well to be prudent in these fashionable follies, Helle—touch some of them with gloves on. I do not like this new style of thing, but if it's the fashion, we must fall in. I'll come, provided there is no scandal and high play," he said, laughing.

As the hour for the Matinee approached, Helen's drawing-rooms presented a coup d'oeil of splendor and elegance. Daylight was carefully excluded; and alabaster lamps threw a soft, moon-lit radiance, through flowers and garlands, over the scene. The costly mirrors, the magnificent furniture, of the time of Louis le Grande, the lofty, frescoed ceiling, the exquisite statuary, and rare paintings, were all in fine keeping with each other, and gave, what an artist would call, tone and harmony to the scene. Attired in white crape and pearls, Helen had never looked more lovely; and of all who crowded with compliments around her, there was not one to rival her. Group after group of the beau monde made their way to the head of the room, where she, with her high-bred worldly air, received them with a smile and pleasant passing words.

"Your Matinee is the most brilliant of the season, Mrs. Jerrold," said a fashionable old lady, with a dowager air—such a one as we meet with constantly in society, who, tangled up in laces, false hair, and a modish style of dress, look like old faries at a christening, and who impress the young and inexperienced by their affected zest that the fleeting pleasures of life are immortal. "Your matinee is really splendid! Such a fashionable company—so much beauty—really, it reminds me of old times. But, my dear creature, did you know there is the greatest sensation in town now about religion?"

"How?" asked Helen, smiling.

"The Romanists are holding something they call a mission at the cathedral, and really, I am told, that the performances are very impressive. It is quite the fashion to go for an hour."

"It is never considered outre to go to the cathedral, as the very elite of our society are Catholic, and attend there; but entre nous, shall you go, Mrs. Jerrold?" observed a lady near them.

"Yes," continued the dowager, with a spiteful air; "and very few parvenues amongst them. Most of them sprung from something better than low trades-people."

"Granted. No doubt they enjoy their pedigree as much as I do the substantial fortune my grandfather acquired by trade," said the lady, pleasantly. "But, Mrs. Jerrold, the music is fine, the preacher superbly eloquent, and every body goes now, instead of attending the opera!"

This grated on Helen's ears. Classing the Church with the opera! But what right had she, who trampled it under foot, to complain?

"Really, I have heard nothing of this mission before!" she said, with an indifferent air. "What is it?"

"I really cannot tell exactly. Thousands go, and thousands come away because they can't be accommodated with seats. Altogether with the music, the eloquent preaching, and the crowd, it is quite a spectacle."

"Yes," put in the dowager; "and that is all. It is a spectacle!"

"Judge Craven's wife and Major Boyd are amongst the converts; and the Rev. Allan Baily," said the lady, with a wink at Helen.

"Oh, my God!" exclaimed the dowager; "Mr. Baily! It must be a lie—I declare it must!"

"Will you have my sal-volatile, madam?" said the malicious lady, enjoying the scene, while she offered her vinaigrette.

"I won't believe it. Who told you, Mrs. Grayson?"

"Himself," replied Mrs. Grayson, calmly.

"He's crazy! He's been flighty these two years, with his long coats, and fast-days, and confession," cried the dowager, fanning herself violently, and snuffing the sal-volatile, until she grew purple in the face. "As to the others, they are doting. I'll go this moment, if you'll excuse me, Mrs. Jerrold, and make my coachman drive me there; and if he has done so, I'll rouse him, as sure as I have a tongue in my head. I knew him when he was a boy, and I protest against it," she said, screaming like an angry macaw, as she fluttered out.

"The town's crazy about Mr. Baily's conversion. I am not surprised at Mrs. Fanshaw's excitement. But let us make up a party, and go tonight, Mrs. Jerrold. The gentleman who conducts this thing, and pulls the wires, is a man of irresistible eloquence. He was one of us a few years ago."

"It would be dangerous to venture, I should think," said Helen, with a dim smile; "but if Mr. Jerrold has no other engagement—"

"Is it of the famous 'Mission' you are speaking, Helen?" interrupted her mother-in-law, rustling in silk and jewels, "Yes; of course we must go. We shall be quite out of the fashion, if we do not. The most distingue persons in town are to be there this evening."

"I fear the opera and assembly will have but a slim attendance," said Walter Jerrold in his pleasant, sarcastic way.

"Oh, we shall get away in time for the assembly, which, by the by, is the last of the season," replied Mrs. Jerrold. "Helen, you look charmingly this morning. I declare you are the happiest couple I know of in the world."

Cards, scandal, chocolate, and ices, filled up the routine of the Matinee; then the guests rolled away in their carriages to dress for dinner, or leave cards at the doors of people, who they knew were out. It is the way of the world.

"I should prefer not to go, Walter," said Helen that evening at tea.

"Nonsense. I have better faith in you, Helen, than to think one evening will put you in peril. Come, don't be a coward. I wish you to hear this eloquent, half-crazy enthusiast preach; then we can drop into the opera, or assembly, whichever you wish."

"In my hat and white pegnoir—how ridiculous, said Helen, with a faint smile.

"No; come back and dress, if you choose. It will look ill for us to stay away when the others expect us and to be frank with you, Helle, I want to convince the world that my wife is not a Romanist."

"Is any one so foolish as to suspect it now, Walter?" she said, bitterly.

"Of course they do. And they'll be disappointed when they see that you neither bow down, nor cross yourself." It was not meant, but every word her husband said told down like drops of fire, into Helen's heart. "Come, shall we go?"

"Yes," replied the sin-enslaved Helen.

When the gay company arrived at the cathedral door, although it was early, they could scarcely make their way through the dense crowds which thronged the isles; but by patiently and gradually moving up towards the transept of the church, they were at last successful in finding seats, which commanded a view of the altars and pulpit. Lights in massive candelabra, and masses of flowers, of rare and rich dyes, covered the high altar. The tabernacle, which stood amidst this marble throne, was draped with cloth of gold, and surrounded by clusters of tube-roses and lilies. Above all, the objects which arrested every wandering eye, was the carved image of the MAN OF SORROWS—the suffering son of God! But it was not towards these that every Catholic soul was drawn. They were only signs, which designated the spot where the real presence of Jesus lay; where, enshrined in the fairest of earth's offerings, he invited their adoration. On each side the altar of the Madonna and the "Good Shepherd" were gorgeously decorated with lights and flowers.

Helen did not kneel. She did not cross herself. She merely sat down, and looked with a haughty, tired air, around her. She did not observe the priest as he came from the sanctuary, and ascended the pulpit, until she saw the attention of others directed towards him; then she lifted her glasses, gazed a few moments at him, thought him a rather distinguished-looking person, and piqued by her husband's observation, turned away to watch the movements of a party who were compelled to resort to walking over the backs of the pews to get to their seats. But while her eyes roved around in search of novel and amusing sights—while she nodded to one acquaintance, and smiled at another—what words are those which ring down into her soul? Why pale her cheeks, and why tremble the gem-decked fingers of her fair hand? Why do tears—tears—strange visitants to that haughty visage, roll over her cheeks? "And there stood by the cross of Jesus, Mary, his mother!" Again the clear sonorous voice of the speaker, filled with a tender cadence and solemn sweetness, enunciated the words. Why does Helen think of her picture at home—of the pitying glance it cast on her the night she committed that crime, which had almost wrecked her soul? Why does she think of her interposition that very morning which had saved her from self-murder? It was from no voluntary will of her own; but these visions came, subduing and touching the rind of her weary heart, until it heaved with the throes of a new birth. She listens now. She cannot do otherwise, for the powerful voice of the preacher rings out clear, distinct, and impressive. His eloquence enchains every heart; in burning words, he assails every soul. Unbelievers, heretics, infidels, and lukewarm Catholics, hang on every sentence; nor disdain the tears which flow, while he tells of the dolors of Mary. Almost fainting, Helen leaned forward, and shaded her face; there was a pent-up agony in her heart, her brain ached, and the throbbing of her pulses almost suffocated her; and when the preacher ceased, she leaned back with a sigh of relief. But it was not over yet. The organ in deep-toned thunders, and notes of liquid music, wailed forth the dolorous harmony of Stabat Mater, while voices of surpassing sweetness sung the words.

"I am ill, Walter—take me home," gasped Helen. "I am overcome by the heat and crowd."

"We must wait a little, Helen. The throng is so great that we cannot move. Dry your face, and let me fan you. Every body is crying, I believe—don't let that trouble you. See, Helle, even I have dropped a tear in memory of those stupendous sorrows," said Walter Jerrold, half playfully, and half in earnest.

Then Helen leaned her face on her hands, while torrents of tears dripped over the diamonds and rubies that decked her fingers.



CHAPTER XVIII.

REPENTANCE.

May was sitting in her neat little parlor, knitting and singing, when there came a curt, sharp rap on the door.

"Come in," she said, looking up; and Mr. Fielding walked in, heated and flurried. "I am very glad to see you, sir. Give me your hat, and let me fetch you a drink of cool water."

"No, ma'am; I am not in a sufficiently pleasant mood with you to accept your hospitalities. I came on legal business," he said, pursing up his mouth, and looking around.

"I am sorry that you are offended with me, sir. What shall I do to obtain your forgiveness?" replied May, with a grave smile.

"Do? What shall you do?" he said, mimicking her. "Do as you always do, and that is just what suits you, ma'am."

"No; I'll do better. I will beg your pardon, and tell you that I am really sorry to have grieved so kind a friend. And begging pardons don't suit me, Mr. Fielding, for you must know I am very proud."

"No doubt of it. You look proud here—living like a Parisian grisette in a garret, and delving from morning until night for your daily bread," he said, testily.

"Dear sir, I do not think I am like a grisette, and this is not a garret. Look around, and see if I am not very nice here. What can be purer and cleaner than this matting, which still smells of the sweet groves of Ceylon. See my chairs and sofa—did you ever see such incomparable chintz? the white ground covered with roses and blue-bells! Here are my books, there my flowers, and this—you know this, do you not?" said May, leading him up to her little oratory.