mpany my father to Boston, to which
place he was ordered. _There_ I was surrounded by persons of fashion and
position, who made eyes at me when I told them I was a Catholic, and
declared I would lose _caste_ if I went to a church which was attended
only by the 'low Irish, and servant girls.' Then I heard Catholics
derided as superstitious and ignorant, until, I must confess it, I grew
_ashamed_ of being one. My father was too busy to think of me,--he
always saw me well-dressed and in good company, and imagined that all
else was going well with me; while _I_, proud, flattered, and enjoying
the world, fancied that it was of little importance while I was so young.
My poor father was a brave and gallant officer; and I think when he
sometimes declared with a dignified air that 'he and his daughter were
Catholics,' it was more from the feeling which makes a soldier swear by
his flag, than any higher motive. This has been my religious training;
but my dear, indulgent father is dead--gone for ever, and I am
_here_--here--Oh, May!" and Helen wept on May's shoulder.

"And _how_, dear Helen, did my uncle die?" said May, in a tone of tender
sympathy.

"Very suddenly. He was not conscious from the moment he was taken ill
until he died," she replied.

May could not utter a word. Her heart was filled with a strange horror
at the idea of that sudden and unprovided death. She could have cried
out with anguish for that soul, which, in the midst of its careless pride
and criminal indifference, had been summoned by an inexorable decree to
the tribunal of judgment! where it appeared _alone--alone--alone_, to be
weighed in the balance of justice. "But, perhaps, sweet Jesus!" she
whispered; "oh, perhaps, Thou didst in the last struggle hear it from its
abyss of misery plead for mercy; perhaps, through thy bitter passion and
death Thou didst rescue him from eternal woe--"

"What are you saying, May! No doubt I have shocked you; you are so very
pious!"

"_Pained_ me, dear Helen; but you will do better now. You _feel_, I am
very sure, that a life of prevarication and indifference does not answer
for a Catholic; and now there will be nothing to hinder you."

"Perhaps so, dear May. I really wish to do right--but what, in the name
of mercy, is that noise!" cried Helen, starting up.

"It is Uncle Stillinghast coming in. He is beating the snow from his
feet," said May, lighting the candles. By this time Mr. Stillinghast had
throw