"Dear Helen," said Mrs. Jerrold, taking the weak girl's hand in her
own, with a caress, "excuse me, for no doubt you still feel some
hankering after those mysterious idolatries which you have wisely
abandoned; but this is so absurd. How came it about?"

"I cannot imagine," she replied, in a faltering voice; for at that
moment the thorn-crowned head of Jesus Christ--his sorrowful face
stained with drops of blood, until its divinely beautiful lineaments
were almost covered--was visioned in her soul with such distinctness,
that she almost shrieked; then it faded away, and she went on:

"I have seen very little of my uncle since his illness. He keeps my
cousin May by his side, and is uneasy if she leaves him an instant."

"And she is a Catholic?" asked Mrs. Jerrold, anxiously.

"Yes, a perfect devotee," replied Helen, bitterly.

"An infatuation! He is weak; his nerves and senses are shattered by
this attack. He has been influenced by her and the priest. My dear
Helen, I fear _your_ interests will suffer."

"Do you really think so?" said Helen, growing pale.

"Mr. Jerrold, you will please to come up for a moment. My uncle
desires to see you particularly," said May, appearing at the door.

"That is a designing girl, depend on it," whispered Mrs. Jerrold, as
her son left the room; "and now, Helen, I must warn you. Be on your
guard, and do not feel hurt when I say, that if she should have