“Did you ever hear such preposterous ignorance!” exclaimed one; “why, old aunty, who has been tampering with you?”

“Nobody, honey, only them that’s got a ’ligion that larns them to give bread to the hungry, warm clothes to the freezing, and fire to keep life in their bodies; and tells the poor ole nigger that God loves her soul as well as he do buckra folks.  So I’m gwine to be one,” replied old Mabel, striking her stick on the hearth.

“You are a poor, benighted creature, and I hope God will pity you on the score of your ignorance,” said one of the well-meaning ladies.

“I hope he will, misses, I hope he will,” she said, humbly.

“We had some things for you; but, of course, we cannot leave them now; the papists must take care of their own poor—­we have enough of our own,” observed one.

“Thank’ee, misses.”

“Downright impudence!” they muttered, flouncing out to their carriage, without seeing May, who had taken refuge behind the bed, which was hung round with some faded patchwork, to keep out air.

“And so you’re bearing testimony for Christ already, Aunt Mabel,” said May, coming towards her with outstretched hands.

“Bless your dear face, honey, it seems best for me.  I ben so long without sarving God, that I shall ’quire all the help I can get in this world and the next.  Them ladies, honey, is well-meaning, I reckon.  They ’tended me a little while last winter, but they wanted to send me out yonder—­I wouldn’t go; I’m mighty poor and helpless, Miss May, and was friendless then, but I couldn’t go thar!”

“Where, Aunt Mabel?”

“To the poor-house, my child.  But, honey, arter you went away yesterday, I all at once remembered a Catholic woman—­she was a half-Indian, half-nigger, from the West Indies—­that I used to do a good turn for now and then.  She was dying with consumption, and she used to talk to me about the saints in glory praying for us, the blessed mother of Jesus Christ, and purgatory, in her broken lingo, till I b’lieved every word she said.  I was trying to recollect, arter you left me, and it all come pat into my head at once.”

“These are consoling, helpful, and holy doctrines, Aunt Mabel; but tell me if you are satisfied that the Roman Catholic Church is the true Church of God?” said May, smoothing her withered hand.

“I can’t ’splain myself, honey; but thar’s something in here that tells me it is,” said the simple old creature, laying her hand on her breast.

“And that something is a great and glorious gift, Aunt Mabel—­the gift of FAITH.  But hear what our dear Lord said, before he ascended to his Father; here is your old Protestant Bible, which your good mistress used to read to you so long ago.  I will find it in this,” said May, taking down the shattered old copy of the Scriptures from its shelf.  “First of all, our Lord established his Church on earth.  It was the object of his divine mission.  Then he endowed his apostles with heavenly gifts and authority to do even as he had done; and declared that his Church was ’founded on a rock, against which the gates of hell should never prevail.’”