you, Helle, I
want to convince the world that my wife is not a _Romanist_."

"Is any one so foolish as to suspect it now, Walter?" she said,
bitterly.

"Of course they do. And they'll be disappointed when they see that you
neither bow down, nor cross yourself." It was not meant, but every
word her husband said told down like drops of fire, into Helen's heart.
"Come, shall we go?"

"Yes," replied the sin-enslaved Helen.

When the gay company arrived at the cathedral door, although it was
early, they could scarcely make their way through the dense crowds
which thronged the isles; but by patiently and gradually moving up
towards the transept of the church, they were at last successful in
finding seats, which commanded a view of the altars and pulpit. Lights
in massive candelabra, and masses of flowers, of rare and rich dyes,
covered the high altar. The tabernacle, which stood amidst this marble
throne, was draped with cloth of gold, and surrounded by clusters of
tube-roses and lilies. Above all, the objects which arrested every
wandering eye, was the carved image of the MAN OF SORROWS--the
suffering son of God! But it was not towards these that every Catholic
soul was drawn. They were only signs, which designated the spot where
the real presence of Jesus lay; where, enshrined in the fairest of
earth's offerings, he invited their adoration. On each side the altar
of the Madonna and the "Good Shepherd" were gorgeously decorated with
lights and flowers.

_Helen did not kneel_. _She did not cross herself_. She merely sat
down, and looked with a haughty, tired air, around her. She did not
observe the priest as he came from the sanctuary, and ascended the
pulpit, until she saw the attention of others directed towards him;
then she lifted her glasses, gazed a few moments at him, thought him a
rather distinguished-looking person, and piqued by her husband's
observation, turned away to watch the movements of a party who were
compelled to resort to walking over the backs of the pews to get to
their seats. But while her eyes roved around in search of novel and
amusing sights--while she nodded to one acquaintance, and smiled at
another--what words are those which ring down into her soul? Why pale
her cheeks, and why tremble the gem-decked fingers of her fair hand?
Why do _tears_--_tears_--strange visitants to that haughty visage, roll
over her cheeks? "_And there stood by the cross of Jesus, Mary, his
mother!_"