May could only follow implicitly the doctor’s directions, and weep and pray.  Father Fabian came—­heard the story of her repentance, and desire to return to God; then returned to wrestle in earnest prayer at the altar that she—­the penitent one—­might be restored long enough to be purified and consoled by the Sacraments of the Church.  For long weary days and nights her life was despaired of.  Her husband, the shadow of his former self, never left her bedside.  He had loved her well, with all his worldliness and pride.  But now the crisis of the disease came on.  Her life hung upon the most attenuated thread.  The doctor gave them no hope of a favorable change.

It was past midnight.  May, with Father Fabian, who had staid, hoping that a short interval of reason would occur before her agony came on—­for they thought she was sinking—­knelt, praying and imploring the mercy of heaven for her helpless soul.  Mr. Jerrold, unmanned, and filled with bitter anguish, had gone out into the balcony, which overhung the garden, where, bowed down, he wept like a child.

A low moan escaped Helen’s white lips, a quivering motion convulsed her limbs.  Her long golden hair was thrown back in dishevelled curls from her marble face.  She gasped for breath.

“Her agony is coming on!” whispered Father Fabian.

But suddenly there was a calm; the struggle ceased, and like one exhausted, she whispered, “Thanks, oh, my Mother!” and her large eyes, from which the film passed away, closed in a sweet and refreshing slumber.

“She will live,” said Father Fabian; “but be silent—­shade the light, and let in more air.”

May wanted to kneel, and sing the glories of MARY; she would like to have declared to all the earth the power and tenderness of that Immaculate Heart, which pursues with importunity and tears those who fly from her Divine Son.  Loving him, she cannot bear that those for whom he suffered should be recreant to their high destiny; but May could only commune with the unseen guardians of her soul, and through them declare her rapture, which ebbed and flowed in sweet numbers, like a life-tide through her soul.

Father Fabian followed Mr. Jerrold out on the balcony, and laying his hand on his shoulder, said, “Let us give thanks to God; your wife will live.  Nay, sir, do not go in; the slightest agitation, before the equilibrium of nature is restored, might destroy her.  Come with me into another room, and follow the advice which I shall give you, which is to lie down and sleep.”  Subdued and humble, the proud man was led like a child into another apartment, where, throwing himself on a lounge, exhausted with long and anxious watching, he fell into a profound sleep.

When Helen awoke the next day, she looked around her with a bewildered air—­then gradually remembered all; and though a feeling of deep tribulation came over her, she felt a peace within herself that she had never known before.  She breathed a prayer to JESUS and MARY for strength and patience in her desolation, for she thought that she was forsaken by all earthly love—­but not friendship, because she saw May kneeling a little way off saying her rosary.