ather."

"That seems right--it sounds right. I know positively nothing about
it, and wish I did. If I could only get Helen out once more, I should
be the happiest fellow on earth," said Mr. Jerrold, with a sad and
puzzled expression on his fine face. "I suspected all along that
perhaps some religious crank had got into Helle's head, from the
circumstances of her allowing no picture but that _Mater Dolorosa_ to
come into her room. It was a queer fancy in one so devoted to
paintings as she is. I have been wishing ever since she got it to buy
a _pendant_ for it. I found a splendid '_Niobe in Tears_'--paid an
exorbitant price for it--brought it home, thinking Helen would be
charmed, but she banished it to the library. Then I purchased a
'Hecate'--a wonderfully beautiful thing, but that was also condemned,
and sent into banishment. Was it not so Helen?"

"Dear Walter--dear May!" said Helen, lifting her white face up from the
pillows, "the struggle is over. I must now, or never, yield to these
impulses and warnings. Oh, Mother--oh, Mother!" she exclaimed, turning
a look of agony towards the picture; "aid me in this mortal struggle!
I can bear this no longer--this mystery and burden--this mantle of
hypocrisy must be torn off, if it costs me your love, Walter, and my
life! _I must be free_. I thought I was strong; I thought I could
walk steadily along the way I have hewn out, but I have been haunted by
a remorse which is inexorable, and that--that sacred, sorrowful face
over which my sins forced so many bitter torrents. It has never left
me day or night. In my revels and worldliness--in my dreams--in my
solitude, it has followed me. I believe if my heart were opened, it
would be found graven there," she gasped out.

"Oh, dear Helen, respond at once to that tender love which has so
patiently pursued you. Remember that no one was ever lost who had
recourse to her. She has placed herself between you and divine
justice, by adopting--taking possession, as it were, of your heart; and
uniting her dolors with those of her Divine Son, has given you no rest,
until you seek it at the foot of the cross!" broke out May, with ardor.
"Oh, Mother of Sorrows! pity this, thy poor child, who flies wounded
and weeping to thy bosom."

Helen wept convulsively. A dark cloud had gathered on her husband's
face. Her words had fallen like cold drops of lead into his heart. He
knew not to what she alluded, and imagined strange and