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