“Believe, and be baptized.”

“Baptized!  I was raised in the belief of the Friends, and have never been baptized,” he said, musingly.

“Better so, sir, for now you can receive properly the waters of regeneration, and experience, when you so much need them, all the graces that flow from baptism into the believing soul,” said May.

“I know the doctrines of your faith, May.  I have read—­I studied it in my days of vision and unreality as an admirable system of human philosophy; but you, child, in your humility—­in your patience and long-suffering—­in your cheerful docility, have taught me that it is divine.”

“Oh, uncle, not me—­not me!  I have done nothing but duty,” said May, covered with confusion.  “It is the mysterious hand of Almighty God, leading you, guiding you to the truth.”

“It can never—­never be now!  It is too late.  I have wasted the hours—­I have buried the talents—­I have derided time—­now the night cometh when no man shall work,” he said, with an expression of anguish.

“Shall I bring Father Fabian? He can strengthen and cheer you with the promises of Christ; he has the power and authority from a divine source to absolve and prepare you for your passage into eternity.  Oh, sir, let me go.”

“Do with me what you please, strange—­strong—­wise little one!  Only never leave me.  Send your cousin for him.”  Just then Helen made her appearance, elaborately and beautifully dressed, as usual, and was shocked at the change in her uncle’s appearance, which a few hours had made.  She inquired “how he felt?”

“I believe I am ill.  I wish you to take a note from May Brooke to her confessor.  She must remain with me,” he said, in his old way.

“I will go instantly,” she said, glad to escape from such a scene, and wondering what the strange old man could have to do with a priest.  May scribbled a few lines on the blank leaf of a book, tore it out, directed it to Father Fabian, and gave it to Helen.

“Try to sleep a little, sir,” said May, gently.

“I have no time for sleep—­tell me of Jesus Christ!”

And May took down from the shelf an old, mouldy Testament, which had not been opened for years, and read, in clear, steady tones, and with sweet pathos, the Passion of our Lord from Gethsamane to Calvary.  When she finished, and looked up, the lips of that pale visage were firmly set, and from his cold, dim eyes, tears were falling apace—­the first he had shed for long, dreary years—­the first of contrition that had ever welled up from his soul.