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.

"Her dispositions are perfect," continued Father Fabian. "Oh, in the
last hour, if the soul is ri