word for word; but here were facts, and realities and influences, which
disarmed and defied all that was skeptical in his nature. The dying
man--the priest of God--that young and fragile girl, illustrated by
their acts a faith which, though mysterious to him, could be nothing
less than divine; but Father Fabian, ignorant of the thoughts which
were passing, like ripples of light, through his mind, approached, and
asked him in a low voice, "how long he supposed Mr. Stillinghast might
linger?"

"He may live until noon to-morrow," said the doctor.

"He may," said Father Fabian, "but I fear not, however, God's holy will
be done!"

During the night Mr. Stillinghast's mind wandered. May, overcome by
fatigue, had leaned her head on the bed-side, and fallen into a
profound sleep. Helen, timid, and startling at every sound, sat near
him, fearing to move, lest it should rouse him.--Her guilty, selfish
thoughts, terrified and haunted her like phantoms.

"There are--some papers," murmured the old man, without turning his
head, and thinking he spoke to May, "papers which I wish burnt."

"Shall I get them, sir?" whispered Helen, while every bad, avaricious,
and selfish instinct in her nature, started to sudden life; "where
shall I find them?"

"On the second shelf--of the closet--where the _wills_ are. They are
records--of sorrows--and bitterness; but be careful, child--those two
wills--the last one, which concerns you--is in--a white--envelope; the