“Do not say us, Helen.  I expect nothing, and desire nothing.  As for you, be satisfied; you are handsomely provided for.”

“I know it; I know it. I have read the will!” exulted Helen.

“Read the will, Helen!  How?  When?”

“Oh, I did not mean that exactly,” said Helen, much confused; “you really take me up so quick, that it is terrible.  I should have said that Walter told me something of the old man’s intentions.”

“May it be blessed to you, Helen, come when it will; but while he lives, let his generous intentions in your favor purchase at least your respect,” said May, in a tone of bitter reproof, for at the moment she recollected Helen’s threat some weeks before to get into her uncle’s chamber, if possible, and she feared that she had accomplished her object at the expense of all that was honorable in feeling, and just in principle.

“May, you won’t say anything—­about—­about what I just blundered out concerning the—­” said Helen, confused and stammering.

“No, Helen; I have nothing to say.  It was natural, though not delicate, for Mr. Jerrold to impart such information to you.  No doubt he thought it would enhance your happiness,” said May, settling herself in her uncle’s chair.

“That’s a good May.  Oh, May, if you were not such a little fanatic how I should love you,” said Helen, stooping over to kiss May’s forehead; but she put up her hand, and the kiss fell on the tips of her fingers.  But her very indignation, although just, humbled her, for with a flash of thought, she was in Gethsemane, and saw the meek and Divine Jesus receive the kiss of Judas.  “Why, then,” she thought, “should I shrink back from one who needs my pity more than my hate?”

“I shall sit up a little longer, Helen.  I feel quite uneasy about Uncle Stillinghast.  Good night,” she said, holding out her hand to Helen.

“What a curious little one you are, May,” said Helen, holding the tiny hand a moment in her own; “but do come up soon, for really I am afraid to be up there alone.”

And Helen went up to their chamber, and closed the door.  She was alone, and had inadvertently placed her candle on May’s table before the old Spanish crucifix.  A small circle of light was thrown around it, from the midst of which the sorrowful face, in its depicted agony of blood and tears, and the measure of a world’s woe stamped on its divine lineaments, looked on her.  Terrified and silent, she stood gazing on it—­her hands clasped—­her lips apart, and trembling.  The crown of thorns—­the transfixed hands and feet, from which the blood seemed flowing—­the wounded side—­the sorrowful eyes, appealed to her.  “For thee!” whispered the angel conscience; “it was all for thee!—­this ignominy—­this suffering—­this death—­oh, erring one!  It was all for thee Divine Jesus assumed the anguish and bitterness of the cross!  Oh, wanderer! why add new thorns to that awful crown of agony?  Why insult the son of God, who suffers for you, by your derelictions and betrayal?”