“I am ashamed of nothing, Helen, but the guilt of sin.  As to my plans, I do not know that you feel any genuine interest in them; and, as we shall not meet often, I suppose, it is scarcely necessary to unfold them.”

“I have a motive in asking you, May—­a good one, too.  I wish to assist you,” said Helen.

“I thank you, dear Helen, but I really do not require the least assistance.  The sum my uncle left me, added to what I shall earn, will support me nicely,” she replied.

“Earn! how?  Shall you take in sewing?” screamed Helen.

“No.  I have rented a nice room from my old friend Mrs. Tabb, who keeps the trimming store, and she has engaged to sell all the fancy knitting I can do.  I am very well provided for, you perceive.”

“I perceive nothing of the kind.  It is positively ridiculous and disgraceful.  What will the world say?” exclaimed Helen.

“The world, dear Helen!  What business has the world with me?  I owe it nothing but its just tribute of good citizenship.  Oh, Helen! the world can soothe no pang when sorrow comes;—­it can bring us no peace when death touches our hearts with his inexorable hand.  No, no; there are no interests in common between the world and me.”

“Gracious! what a fanatic!” said Helen, keeping down the wrestling and struggling of her heart; and, with a careless air, throwing back the long, bright curls, from her faultless face.  “But listen to reason, May.  You have been unfairly dealt with.  I cannot reconcile the thing to either my pride or conscience.  Walter feels as I do; and I can tell you we are extremely anxious to have you become an inmate of our family—­to be in it, like myself, and feel free to act, and think, as you please.  I can assure you, Walter has a prodigiously high opinion of you.”

“Helen,” said May, fixing those clear luminous eyes on the shifting countenance of her cousin, “your offer is, no doubt, kindly meant—­but I cannot accept it.  I would not, Helen, if you offered me half your fortune, live in a house so unblessed, as I fear—­as I fear yours will be.”

“And why such predictions?” asked Helen, haughtily.

“Can one who defies the spirit of God by disobedience—­and—­yes, I must say it—­apostasy, expect blessings?  And could I, who daily implore Heavenly Father to save me from temptation, thrust myself under its influence?  Oh, no! no, Helen.  Enjoy life after your fashion—­whirl through its giddy circles, if such is your choice—­but leave me in obscurity, to follow out the path which leads to something beyond the grave.  But, dear Helen, let us part in peace—­my prayers shall follow you; and I do beseech you, by the memory of the bitter passion and death of Jesus Christ, and the Dolors of His Immaculate Mother, to reflect, sometimes, on what should be the aims of an immortal soul!”

“You are a strange creature, May,” said Helen, with a quivering lip, and a momentary impulse to throw herself at May’s feet, and confess her guilt, which flitted away.  “You will visit me sometimes, May?”