“They fear he is sinking,” said Helen, in the same tone of counterfeit feeling.

“How melancholy!” said Mrs. Jerrold, taking possession of the corner of the sofa, almost dying with curiosity.

“Has he inquired after me, do you know Helen?”

“I have not heard.”

“I thought, perhaps, he might wish to see me in relation to the firm, and its concerns; though every thing has been conducted with such strict regularity, that I do not suppose it is necessary.”

“Perhaps as May has been with him all the time, she can give you some information,” said Helen, with one of her cold, haughty glances towards May, who just then came in.

“I will not detain you one moment,” said Mr. Jerrold, bowing to May.  “I am anxious to know particularly how Mr. Stillinghast is, and if he has inquired for me?”

“But this moment, Mr. Jerrold, he awoke, and requested to see you.  I thought you were here, and ran down to see.  He is very low indeed, sir, and I will just let him know that you are waiting to see him.”

“It may not be important; but if he is not too ill, I should be glad to see him a moment.”

“I will come down for you immediately.  Excuse me, Mrs. Jerrold,” said May, who hurrying out, was met by Father Fabian.  He spoke kindly to Helen, bowed courteously to the strangers, and went up stairs.

“Who is that, dear?” asked Mrs. Jerrold, whose attention had been arrested by the dignified courtesy of Father Fabian’s manner.

“A Catholic clergyman,” said Helen, blushing.

“Your uncle is not a Catholic?”

“He was not, but he is now.”

A look of ineffable scorn spread over Mrs. Jerrold’s handsome face, while a low, contemptuous laugh from her son, was the response.

“Dear Helen,” said Mrs. Jerrold, taking the weak girl’s hand in her own, with a caress, “excuse me, for no doubt you still feel some hankering after those mysterious idolatries which you have wisely abandoned; but this is so absurd.  How came it about?”

“I cannot imagine,” she replied, in a faltering voice; for at that moment the thorn-crowned head of Jesus Christ—­his sorrowful face stained with drops of blood, until its divinely beautiful lineaments were almost covered—­was visioned in her soul with such distinctness, that she almost shrieked; then it faded away, and she went on: 

“I have seen very little of my uncle since his illness.  He keeps my cousin May by his side, and is uneasy if she leaves him an instant.”

“And she is a Catholic?” asked Mrs. Jerrold, anxiously.

“Yes, a perfect devotee,” replied Helen, bitterly.

“An infatuation!  He is weak; his nerves and senses are shattered by this attack.  He has been influenced by her and the priest.  My dear Helen, I fear your interests will suffer.”

“Do you really think so?” said Helen, growing pale.

“Mr. Jerrold, you will please to come up for a moment.  My uncle desires to see you particularly,” said May, appearing at the door.