rlasting
torments which lie beyond Purgatory--unless, indeed, unless that
mild-eyed Saviour would be content to take her faith and her acts of
hidden worship, despite her aunt, despite that odious nun, and despite
the very priest himself! She did not know how this might be with her,
but she did know that all the teaching of her life was against any such
hope.

But what was--what could be the good of such thoughts to her? Had not
things gone too far with her for such thoughts to be useful? She loved
the Jew, and had told him so; and not all the penalties with which the
priests might threaten her could lessen her love, or make her think of
her safety here or hereafter, as a thing to be compared with her love.
Religion was much to her; the fear of the everlasting wrath of Heaven
was much to her; but love was paramount! What if it were her soul?
Would she not give even her soul for her love, if, for her love's sake,
her soul should be required from her? When she reached the archway, she
had made up her mind that she would tell her aunt first, and that she
would do so early on the following day. Were she to tell her father
first, her father might probably forbid her to speak on the subject to
Madame Zamenoy, thinking that his own eloquence and that of the priest
might prevail to put an end to so terrible an iniquity, and that so
Madame Zamenoy might never learn the tidings. Nina, thinking of all
this, and being quite determined that the Zamenoys should know what
she intended to tell them, resolved that she would say nothing on that
night at home.

"You are very late, Nina," said her father to her, crossly, as soon
as she entered the room in which they lived. It was a wide apartment,
having in it now but little furniture--two rickety tables, a few
chairs, an old bureau in which Balatka kept, under lock and key, all
that still belonged to him personally, and a little desk, which was
Nina's own repository.

"Yes, father, I am late; but not very late. I have been with Anton
Trendellsohn."

"And what have you been there for now?"

"Anton Trendellsohn has been talking to me about the papers which uncle
Karil has. He wants to have them himself. He says they are his."

"I suppose he means that we are to be turned out of the old house."

"No, father; he does not mean that. He is not a cruel man. But he says
that--that he cannot settle anything about the property without having
the papers. I suppose that is true."

"He has