“Come hither, child,” said the old man, turning his feeble eyes towards her.  “I fear—­I have—­assisted—­encouraged you—­to forsake your faith.  God—­forgive me—­for my ignorance and sin.  But hear me.  I am dying—­hear me testify to the saving and divine truths of that faith—­and repent you—­repent ere—­it is—­too late for ever.  It is an awful thing—­girl—­to live away—­from—­the—­true fold of Jesus Christ;—­but how horrible—­is it—­to forsake it!  Father Fabian—­come closer,” he said, feebly, while he placed Helen’s hand in that of the clergyman, “bring—­watch her—­guide her, until she is saved.”

“My poor child! you will not forsake your religion; you dare not peril your salvation by severing, with sacrilegious hand, the ties which unite you to JESUS CHRIST, as a member of His glorious body?” asked the priest, in a tone of blended pity and authority.

“Oh, no, no!” sobbed Helen, quite overcome by the scene.  “I am very young, and love the world.  I have never intended to forsake my religion entirely.  I intend, at some early day, to go to confession.  I have only procrastinated.”

“Of course, my dear child, you will return to your duty,” said Father Fabian; “you cannot do otherwise, unless you wish to seal deliberately your eternal perdition.”

“You will marry—­marry Jerrold,” gasped Mr. Stillinghast; “but do—­not—­forget—­that your prevarications—­may ruin his soul—­with your own.  Are—­you willing—­to assume the responsibility?”

“Oh, sir, this is horrible!” exclaimed Helen, falling on her knees beside the bed.

“But true,” added Father Fabian, at a sign from Mr. Stillinghast, who leaned back exhausted.  “It is a perilous thing, under the most favorable circumstances, for a Catholic to wed with a Protestant.  If the Catholic has not the patience of a saint, and the constancy of a martyr, scandal must come.  Concessions must be made—­vital principles too often yielded, and at last the unbeliever triumphs—­not over the mere human will, and the weak nature of his victim, but over religion—­and exultingly thinks how frail are the defences of this faith, which is called divine.  Then, confirmed in his errors by your betrayal, his whole life is a scoff at Eternal Truth; while you, bringing forth children, who, instead of becoming heirs of Christ, become aliens from His fold, while your sin—­your treachery—­your apostasy will, like an onward billow, roll through future generations, until it dashes itself, with its black abominations, at the feet of the Eternal Judge.  But, my dear child, through the mercy of God, and your own example, you may win this wandering soul to embrace the truth:  at any rate, you may, by your pious constancy, plant the seeds of a better life in his soul, which may bear the fruits of salvation.”

“It was—­my act.  I would undo it—­but—­it is too late—­too late.  Helen—­forgive me.”