“Yes, Mary, I am very happy—­happier than I ever was before; and far more so than I deserve.  Oh!  Mary, how miserable I have been; and it is by contrast that the transition is so delightful.  I doubted the goodness and mercy of God; and, in the bitterness of my heart, I asked why I had been created for so much suffering.  Oh, Mary! my pure-hearted, angel cousin, how much of my present happiness I owe to you.  Suppose you had suffered me to wander on in the maze of darkness.  At this moment I should have been a desolate, deluded, miserable nun; clinging to a religion which, instead of Bible truths, filled the anxious, aching heart with monkish legends of unattested miracles, and in place of the pure worship of God, gives us mummeries nearer akin to pagan rites!  I thank God that I am released from my thraldom.  I see now the tissue of falsehood so plausible in which all things were wrapped.  Blackness and deceit in the garb of truth and purity!  And it is horrible, to think that he who so led me astray claims to be my brother!  Mary, Mary, how can I tell Mr. Stewart this?—­tell him that I have wandered from the true faith—­that I have knelt in confession to him who cursed our common father!  He will despise me for my weakness:  for only yesterday he said he first loved me for my clear insight into right and wrong, and my scorn of deceit and hypocrisy!  Yet I deceived you; at least, tacitly—­you who have ever loved me so truly, you who have saved me at last, and pointed out the road to heaven.  Mary, forgive me!  I never asked pardon of any on earth before, but I wronged you, good and gentle though you always were.  Forgive me, oh, my cousin!”

Mary clasped Florence’s hands in hers, and though too feeble to speak very audibly, replied: 

“Florry, think not of the past; it has been very painful to us both, yet I thank God that you are right at last.  You know how I love you:  I would give every treasure of earth to contribute to your happiness; and now that you are so blest, listen to my counsel.  Florry, there is a cloud no bigger than a man’s hand resting low on the horizon of your happiness—­be warned in time.  You know Mr. Stewart’s firm, unwavering principals of Protestantism; you know, too the aversion with which he regards the priests of Rome; it may be a hard task now, but it will be tenfold more difficult a year hence.  Go to him at once, tell him you were misguided and deceived, and reveal every circumstance connected with that unhappy period.  He will love you more for your candor.  Florry, you turn pale, as though unequal to the task.  Oh, my cousin, you prize his love more than truth; but the time will come when he will prize truth more than your love!  Florry, let me beg you tell him all, and at once.”  She sank back, as if exhausted by her effort in speaking so long, yet firmly retained Florence’s hand.

“Mary, if I do this, it is at the risk of losing his esteem, which I prize even more than his love.  And after all, I cannot see that truth or duty requires this humiliating confession.  Should he ever question me, I should scorn to deceive him, and at once should tell him all.  But he does not suspect it, and I, being no longer in danger or blinded, need not reveal the past.”