“Do you really believe this, May?” he asked, eagerly.

“I really do.  Religion is a vital principle.  It cannot be torn from the soul without inflicting the most incurable wounds,” she replied, while her eyes filled up with tears; “and these wounds give birth to an anguish, which is the prelude of eternal woe!”

“Why did she do it, May? I did not require it.  It is true I was better pleased to have her a Protestant, but I thought she was exercising her own free will in the matter.  Do you know it would grieve me sincerely if I thought I had influenced her?  It would not a month ago, but now—­hang it all!” said Mr. Jerrold, taking off his hat, and running his fingers through his hair.

“And why now, and not then?” inquired May, with interest.

“Why, you see, May, I was so delighted with the eloquence of the preacher the night we went to the ‘Mission,’ that I stepped in several times afterwards, and was considerably enlightened on some points; in fact, a great deal of prejudice and ignorance were removed by the clear, close, cogent arguments I heard.  It would be a terrible thing, May—­a devilish thing, to be guilty of soul-murder!”

“Terrible indeed.  I cannot believe now that you would on any account oppose Helen in the practice of her faith?”

“No, unless it makes her gloomy and moping.  But here we are, do you run up to her room.  I will drive down to the post-office, and be back in a quarter of an hour,” said Mr. Jerrold, handing May out, and opening the hall-door for her.

May ran through the gorgeous hall, and up the marble staircase, with its statues and vases; but so intent was she on her errand of charity that she noticed nothing of the rich splendors around her.  She encountered Elise at the head of the staircase.

“Ou alles-vous, mademoiselle?” she said, with an elegant courtesy.

“I am Mrs. Jerrold’s cousin, and have come to see her.  Show me her room,” said May, with an air of dignity.

“Je vous demande pardon.  Madame Jerrold est un peu indisposee.  Entrez!” said Elise, throwing open Helen’s door, without however, making the least noise.  And there, amidst her almost oriental luxuries, she reclined; her heaped-up silken cushions—­her ormolu tables—­her Eastern vases, filled with spices and rose-leaves, until the air was heavy with fragrance—­her rich and grotesque furniture—­her rose-colored draperies, through which the light flowed in softly and radiantly—­her jewels—­her costly attire; amidst it all she reclined—­faded, conscience-stricken, and trembling.  There was a wild, feverish light in her eyes, and her white lips quivered incessantly.

“Helen—­dear Helen!” said May, holding out her hands.

“‘If you are sick, or sorrowful, or repentant, send for me.’  You said this to me some time ago, May.  The promise is claimed,” she said, feebly.