“Simply and frankly because I wished to be free.”

“Woman’s rights!  As I suspected, woman’s rights!” exclaimed Father Fabian, lifting his hands with horror.

“Soul’s rights, Father! Soul’s rights!” said May, in an impassioned manner.  “I could not live with Helen in peace without spiritual bondage.  Her way of life would leave me no neutral ground to stand on.  She has forsaken her religion; every act of hers is therefore open rebellion against God, and I must have raised my voice in one incessant clamor had I lived with her.  Had I gone to dear, kind Mr. Fielding, he might have made demands on time which I have devoted to religion, which my gratitude might have disposed me to yield to.  But I am grateful to them all for their kind intentions, and I am sure, if their friendship is real, they will be happier to know that I am happy in my own way.”

“Is this all, May?” asked Father Fabian, who suspected her of entertaining other reasons still.

“I had hoped to keep it secretly, but I have another reason.  You know that I am blamed for the loss of that will, which made noble bequests to the poor and destitute.  I may be guilty; I cannot pretend to say that I am not, therefore, as a sort of reparation to those afflicted ones, who would have been relieved by my uncle’s bounty, of which I perhaps, by an act of carelessness have deprived them, I have made a vow to dedicate my life, my energies, and will, to the service of the poor in active and laborious works,” said May, with a grave and humble manner.

“Your motives are good, my child; only let us be careful not to seek our own gratification too much, either temporal or spiritual, in our works.  I certainly acquit you of all modern chivalry.  I will see Mr. Fielding about that affair this evening, and request him to postpone it.”

“If you please, Father,” said May, over whose countenance a shadow had fallen.

“What is the trouble now, little one?” asked Father Fabian.

“Have I been presumptuous, Father?  Have I been lifting up my hands to heaven like the Pharisee, and thanking God that I am not like others?  Oh, Father, I think I should rather die than be self-righteous!”

“I think not, my child.  Only we must not rely too much on our intentions, which may be, morally speaking, good, but spiritually bad, if they are not united with great humility.  I should be false to your soul’s interests if I dealt not plainly with you.  But go now to your old pensioner.  I administered to her this morning the last rites of the Church, and think it more than possible that before another sunrise she will have passed away from this life of mourning and gloom.”

“I thought yesterday evening, when I was there, that her sufferings were nearly at an end,” said May, wiping off a tear.