departing soul, and recommended the dying one
to the tender care of the Immaculate Mother of Jesus. A ray from the
setting sun, stealing through the trees without, flowed into the shaded
room, and rested on her pillow in flickering radiance; and ere it
passed away, her spirit had sped from its tenement of clay to undergo
the judgment which, after death, every soul must stand. It was a sweet
falling asleep with her, so gently had death released her from the
bonds of flesh. An hour passed by, and still May knelt, absorbed in
prayer, and earnest intercession for the departed. It was growing
dark, and rising up, she straightened and composed old Mabel's limbs;
and covering her face, went out and called the child, and bid her go
for one of the neighboring women to come in, and prepare the body for
interment. She looked in the chest for the grave-clothes which the old
woman had kept and guarded as her only treasure for years and years;
and finding every thing needful in the parcel, gave it to the woman,
with strict injunctions to arrange every thing with the greatest
decency, and watch by her through the night. Promising to be there
early in the morning to pay and relieve her, she hurried to Father
Fabian to leave word with him, and request him to make the necessary
arrangements for the interment--the expenses of which she wished to
defray herself. It was quite dark when she got home, and feeling
wearied and overcome, she retired early, filled with gratitude for the
privilege she had enjoyed, of seeing one so good and humble as old
Mabel die. Death had assumed to her a benign and holy aspect; she
almost felt,

"_There is no Death. What seems so is Transition._
This life of mortal breath
Is but the suburbs of that Life Elysian,
_Whose portals we call Death._" [2]

The next day Father Fabian, in the presence of a few poor neighbors,
performed the last touching rites of the Church over the inanimate body
of old Mabel--the body which, "sown in dishonor, would be raised in
honor" to eternal life. May walked beside the coffin as it was borne
to the grave, nor left the spot until the last clod of earth was thrown
on it; then, when it was deserted by all else, as constant in death as
she had been in life, she kneeled down beside it, and offered up
fervent prayers for her eternal repose.

[1] Herbert.

[2] Longfellow.

CHAPTER XVII.

REMORSE.

It was near day-dawn. A splendid carriage, drawn b