“May!” cried Helen, while her face grew deadly white, and she grasped her cousin’s arm; “hush! how dare you speak thus to me?  It is cruel!  Henceforth utter no such language to me while we both live.  If I am on the brink of perdition, I alone am responsible for my acts—­not you.”

“I will try to obey you, Helen, so far; but I will pray for you—­I will do penance for you—­I will offer frequent communions for you—­I will intercede with our tender and Immaculate Mother for you.  I will fly to Calvary, and at the foot of the cross beseech our suffering Jesus, by his bitter passion and death to have mercy on you.  You cannot stop me—­you cannot hinder me in this, for, oh Helen! it is an awful thing to see a soul tearing off its baptismal robe, trampling underfoot the seals of the Church, and rushing away from her fold of safety to eternal—­eternal woe!” cried May, wringing her hands, while big tears rolled over her face.

Helen turned away to brush off a single tear that moistened her eyes, but through it she saw the glitter of a diamond bracelet, which Walter Jerrold had just sent her, with a bouquet of hot-house flowers—­all rare and costly, and the poor tear was dashed off with impatience, and a haughty curl of the lip.

“You act finely, May, but drop all this, and tell me what you will wear at my bridal,” said Helen, clasping the bracelet on her arm, to try its effect.

“I shall not be there, Helen.  I cannot even wish you joy, for there can no joy ever come in disobeying the Church, whose voice is the voice of God himself.”

“As you please,” she replied, coldly; “but croak no more to-night.  You are like a bird of ill-omen to me.”

May sighed, and retired to her oratory, to say her night prayers.

CHAPTER X.

THE WARNING.

One morning Mr. Stillinghast was sitting alone in his counting-room, when Michael, the porter, came in, and informed him that a man wished to speak to him.

“Tell him to come in,” he replied, moodily.

“Here he is, sir,” said Michael, returning in a few minutes with a man, who had a saw slung over his arm.

“What is your business with me?” said Mr. Stillinghast.

“And didn’t your honor sind afther me?”

“I never heard of you in my life before,” he stormed.

“And then, sir, you may blame the ommadhauns that sent me; for, by this and by that, they tould me at the wood-yard, foreninst, that your honor was inquiring for me,” replied the man, slinging his saw up over his shoulder.

“At the wood-yard?  I remember; but it is too late, now—­it makes no difference,” said Mr. Stillinghast, speaking slowly, and frowning.

“I’d have come before, only the day afther the young lady took me to saw wood for the ould nagur, I got the pleurisy, and didn’t lave my bed these five weeks,” said the man, lingering about the door.