“That is a designing girl, depend on it,” whispered Mrs. Jerrold, as her son left the room; “and now, Helen, I must warn you.  Be on your guard, and do not feel hurt when I say, that if she should have succeeded in cozening your uncle to revoke his will in her favor, my poor son’s happiness will be wrecked for ever.  He is not rich, you know, and is too proud to marry a woman whom he cannot support in good style; consequently, this marriage, which, under existing circumstances, gives us so much pleasure, would then have to be broken off.”

“Mr. Fielding was with him, and I heard them talking about a will, but whether it was the old, or a new one, I could not determine,” said Helen, becoming very white.

“Hush! not another word; Walter is coming down.  But remember what I tell you.  Well, dear Walter?”

“I think Mr. Stillinghast is sinking, but he is perfectly himself,” said the young man, in a low tone, as he seated himself.  “He is much changed, and speaks in broken sentences.”

“He knew you?” asked Mrs. Jerrold.

“Perfectly.  He told me that our recent engagement was all secured, and begged me to keep up the credit of the old house; spoke of our marriage, dear Helen, and gave me some advice, which I could not understand, about faith and baptism, and truth, and all that kind of thing, peculiar to old men who are dying,” said the young man, with a light smile.

“Then he has not made another will?” asked Mrs. Jerrold.

“No, I fancy not; merely a codicil, if any thing.  But be careful of yourself, Helen; don’t sit up at night—­it will hurt your eyes and good looks.  May Brooke is an indefatigable nurse,” said the worldly man.

“Farewell, sweet Helen,” whispered Mrs. Jerrold, embracing her.  “We shall soon have you to ourselves.  But be on the qui vive; there may be something, you know, under all this.”

“Another will!” thought Helen, after they went away; “if another exists, different from the first——­well—­I see no reason why a whim should wreck my happiness.”  Then, tempted and scheming, she sat motionless for hours.  Alas! for the soul which of its own free will, unmoors itself from the Rock of Ages, to drift away on dark and uncertain seas; who, lured away by the sun-gilt mirage, throws down the cross, scorns the thorny crown, and despises Calvary, to perish at last miserably in the arid desert!  Although Helen had never been a pious Catholic, she had always declared herself one, and resisted every open attack on her faith; but now, insidious scorn, worldly interests, and human love had entered her soul, and poisoned it, and for a season they would triumph.

“Uncle Stillinghast wants you, dear Helen,” said May, tapping her on the shoulder.

“Me!” she exclaimed, starting up like a guilty thing.

“Yes, dear.  He will receive the Holy Viaticum soon, and he wishes to speak with you before,” said May, winding her arm around Helen’s waist, and wishing, in the charity that filled her soul, that she could as easily lead her back, weeping and penitent, to the foot of the cross.