finger, which she had cut in her awkward attempts to slice the bread.

"This is a bad business," said May, binding it up. "Helen, I really feel very sorry for you. You will have so many disheartening trials in your new way of life; but keep a brave heart—I will learn you all that I know, if you are only willing."

"Thank you, May, that is very nice. I don't care much about learning such low pursuits; but give me something to eat," was her polite reply.

May crossed herself when she sat down, and asked the blessing of God on the food she was to partake of. Helen fell to, without a thought of anything but the cravings of hunger. They conversed cheerfully together; and while Helen rallied her cousin on her long absence. May thought, more than once, with sad forebodings, of her encounter with her uncle down town that morning. But she determined to keep her own secrets; for she well knew that if he discovered it, he would forbid her exertions in behalf of old Mabel, her visits, and be perhaps furiously angry at the traffic she was carrying on with Mrs. Tabb.

CHAPTER V.

PAST AND PRESENT.

The day waned; and that soft, silent hour, which the Scotch so beautifully call the "gloaming" was over the earth. Subdued shadows crept in through the windows, and mingled with the red glow which the fire-light diffused throughout the room, and together they formed a phantasmagoria, which seemed to ebb and flow like a noiseless tide. And with the shadows, memories of the past floated in, and knocked with their spirit-hands softly and gently against the portals of those two hearts which life's tempest had thrown together. Helen wept.

"Do you remember your mother, dear Helen?" asked May, while she folded her hand in her own.

"No and yes. If it is a memory, it is so indistinct that it seems like a dream; and yet, how often at this hour does a vision come to my mind of a dark-eyed, soft-voiced woman, holding kneeling child against her bosom, to whom she taught a whispered prayer to the madonna! And the child seems me—and the lady, my mother; but it flits away, and then I think it is a dream of long ago."

"Angel mothers! Oh, how beautiful the thought—angel mothers!" said May, in a low, earnest tone. "Do you know, I think with so much pleasure of going to mine! Even when I was a little child, it was sufficient for my old maummy to say, 'Ah, how grieved your poor mamma would be, if she was here!'"

"Do you remember her?"

"Not at all. She died when I was a little wailing infant. Four months afterwards, my father, who was an officer in the navy, died at Canton. He never saw me."

"And you have been here ever since?"

"Ever since. A faithful servant of my mother's, who had been many years in the family, brought me in my helplessness to my uncle for protection. But he, unused to interruptions, would not have received me, only the news which came of my father's death, left him no alternative; so my old maummy remained to nurse me, and keep house for him. I can never express how much I owe her. She was ignorant in worldly knowledge, and only a poor slave; but in her simple and earnest faith, she knew much of the science of the saints. With a mother's tenderness, she shielded me from spiritual ignorance and error, and led my soul to the green pastures of the fold of Christ."

"Had you no other instructor?" inquired Helen.

"Oh yes. Father Fabian. He instructed me in the divine mysteries of our holy faith. He has been my director ever since I was a little child. But how was it with you, dear Helen?"

"I have lived a great deal with Protestants, May," replied Helen, after a short pause. "My father was a major in the army—the only brother of the old man here. He was a Catholic, but he was always so full of official business that he had very little time to attend to religion, and all that kind of thing. His official duties engrossed his time entirely. But he always impressed it on my mind that it would be extremely dishonorable not to avow myself a Catholic when occasions demanded it; and I believe he would have been pleased to see me practise my faith. I was sent to a convent school in Louisiana when I was ten years of age, but was suddenly removed, to accompany 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 thrown off his wrappings, hung up his hat, and come in. He was evidently in no amiable mood, and to the greetings of his nieces condescended no reply.

"It is colder this evening, Sir, is it not?" said May, flitting around the tea-table.

"Yes."

"Shall I get your tea now, uncle?"

"Yes."

"Here it is, sir; it is very nice and hot; every thing is ready. Come,
Helen," said May, placing the chairs. They took their seats in silence.

"What's your name?" Mr. Stillinghast said abruptly, turning to Helen.

"Helen."

"Can you make bread?"

"No, sir," replied Helen, in trembling tones.

"Learn, d'ye hear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you sweep—make a shirt—wash—iron?" he