“Is any one so foolish as to suspect it now, Walter?” she said, bitterly.

“Of course they do.  And they’ll be disappointed when they see that you neither bow down, nor cross yourself.”  It was not meant, but every word her husband said told down like drops of fire, into Helen’s heart.  “Come, shall we go?”

“Yes,” replied the sin-enslaved Helen.

When the gay company arrived at the cathedral door, although it was early, they could scarcely make their way through the dense crowds which thronged the isles; but by patiently and gradually moving up towards the transept of the church, they were at last successful in finding seats, which commanded a view of the altars and pulpit.  Lights in massive candelabra, and masses of flowers, of rare and rich dyes, covered the high altar.  The tabernacle, which stood amidst this marble throne, was draped with cloth of gold, and surrounded by clusters of tube-roses and lilies.  Above all, the objects which arrested every wandering eye, was the carved image of the MAN OF SORROWS—­the suffering son of God!  But it was not towards these that every Catholic soul was drawn.  They were only signs, which designated the spot where the real presence of Jesus lay; where, enshrined in the fairest of earth’s offerings, he invited their adoration.  On each side the altar of the Madonna and the “Good Shepherd” were gorgeously decorated with lights and flowers.

Helen did not kneel. She did not cross herself.  She merely sat down, and looked with a haughty, tired air, around her.  She did not observe the priest as he came from the sanctuary, and ascended the pulpit, until she saw the attention of others directed towards him; then she lifted her glasses, gazed a few moments at him, thought him a rather distinguished-looking person, and piqued by her husband’s observation, turned away to watch the movements of a party who were compelled to resort to walking over the backs of the pews to get to their seats.  But while her eyes roved around in search of novel and amusing sights—­while she nodded to one acquaintance, and smiled at another—­what words are those which ring down into her soul?  Why pale her cheeks, and why tremble the gem-decked fingers of her fair hand?  Why do tears—­tears—­strange visitants to that haughty visage, roll over her cheeks? “And there stood by the cross of Jesus, Mary, his mother!” Again the clear sonorous voice of the speaker, filled with a tender cadence and solemn sweetness, enunciated the words.  Why does Helen think of her picture at home—­of the pitying glance it cast on her the night she committed that crime, which had almost wrecked her soul?  Why does she think of her interposition that very morning which had saved her from self-murder?  It was from no voluntary will of her own; but these visions came, subduing and touching the rind of her weary heart, until it heaved with the throes of a new birth.