“Dear uncle, do not say so.—­I have nothing to forgive,” she sobbed.

“Time will come, I fear—­when—­you will not think so.  Go, now—­I—­have provided—­for you—­see—­that you provide—­for the eternal future,” he said, with difficulty.

Helen kissed the hand already shadowed by the approach of death, and left the room, weeping.

“It is horrible!” she exclaimed, almost shrieking, as she threw herself on the bed, after she reached her apartment.  “I hope he will not send for me again.  I never loved this harsh, bitter old man, nor do I intend to risk my happiness by promising impossibilities.  I’ll go to confession, and all that, when I am ready, and not before.  Walter detests Catholics; and if he thought I was still one, he’d never wed me.  But it cannot last long—­I shall soon be free; and, once Jerrold’s wife, I can practise my religion if I choose.  At any rate, I shall die a Catholic!”

It was midnight.  All was silent in the death-chamber.  The night-taper was placed behind a screen; and the fire-light flickered with a tremulous motion on the richly-carved, antique furniture, black and polished by age, and creeping upwards, threw long, wavering shadows on the wall.  Amidst this solemn twilight, a table spread with white, which supported a crucifix, wax lights, and flowers, stood near the sick man’s bed.  A guest was expected ere long—­a divine and honored guest was coming into the shadowy room where death held his awful presence, to strengthen and console that penitent spirit on is passage to eternity, when, like Elias, after his miraculous repast, strengthened and courageous, it would walk with humble, but sure steps towards its eternal Horeb!

May knelt by her uncle’s side, with his hand clasped in hers, praying, and whispering sweet words of cheer.  A footstep sounded on the pavement; it ascended the steps, and Father Fabian, accompanied by Helen and Doctor Burrell, who had been waiting in the parlor below, came in, bearing with him the Lord of Life.  May lit the candles on the temporary altar, and retired with the rest for a few moments, while Father Fabian held a brief conversation with the penitent old man, touching the affairs of his conscience; then he summoned them in; and while they knelt, he arranged himself in surplice and stole, and in a solemn, impressive manner, began the sacramental rite. “’Behold him—­behold the Lamb of God, who taketh away the sins of the world,’” he said, holding up the sacred host. “’He that eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood,’ says the Redeemer, ’hath ever-lasting life, and I will raise him up on the last day.’  The day of life was almost spent, when you came to him; night was coming on, but He, in the plenitude of His divine compassion, turned you not away, but gives you a princely reward—­even Himself.  Like the Prodigal, destitute and naked, you return, and receiving you, He spreads a mystic feast, in which