“On what point do you wish my advice?” said Mrs. Wilson, kindly, after she had finished reading the letter, “and when do you expect to see your uncle?”

“Would you have me accept the offer of my father, dear madam, or am I to remain separated from him for the short residue of his life?”

Mrs. Fitzgerald was affected to tears, as she asked this question, and waited her answer, in silent dread of its nature.

“Is the condition of a change of religion, an immovable one?” inquired Mrs. Wilson, in a thoughtful manner.

“Oh! doubtless,” replied Julia, shuddering; “but I am deservedly punished for my early disobedience, and bow in submission to the will of Providence.  I feel now all that horror of a change of my religion, I once only affected; I must live and die a Protestant, madam.”

“Certainly, I hope so, my dear,” said Mrs. Wilson; “I am not a bigot, and think it unfortunate you were not, in your circumstances, bred a pious Catholic.  It would have saved you much misery, and might have rendered the close of your father’s life more happy; but as your present creed embraces doctrines too much at variance with the Romish church to renounce the one or to adopt the other, with your views, it will be impossible to change your church without committing a heavy offence against the opinions and practices of every denomination of Christians.  I should hope a proper representation of this to your uncle would have its weight, or they might be satisfied with your being a Christian, without becoming a Catholic.”

“Ah! my dear madam,” answered Mrs. Fitzgerald, despairingly, “you little know the opinions of my countrymen on this subject.”

“Surely, surely,” cried Mrs. Wilson, “parental affection is a stronger feeling than bigotry.”

Mrs. Fitzgerald shook her head in a manner which bespoke both her apprehensions and her filial regard.

“Julia ought not, must not, desert her father, dear aunt,” said Emily, her face glowing with the ardency of her feelings.

“And ought she to desert her heavenly Father, my child?” asked the aunt, mildly.

“Are the duties conflicting, dearest aunt?”

“The Conde makes them so.  Julia is, I trust, in sincerity a Christian, and with what face can she offer up her daily petitions to her Creator, while she wears a mask to her earthly father; or how can she profess to honor doctrines that she herself believes to be false, or practise customs she thinks improper?”

“Never, never,” exclaimed Julia, with fervor; “the struggle is dreadful, but I submit to the greater duty.”

“And you decide rightly, my friend,” said Mrs. Wilson, soothingly; “but you need relax no efforts to convince the Conde of your wishes:  truth and nature will finally conquer.”

“Ah!” cried Mrs. Fitzgerald, “the sad consequences of one false step in early life!”

“Rather,” added Mrs, Wilson, “the sad consequences of one false step in generations gone by.  Had your grandmother listened to the voice of prudence and duty, she never would have deserted her parents for a comparative stranger, and entailed upon her descendants a train of evils which yet exist in your person.”