about courts and questions of equity, and
all that."

"You won't dare to do so yet, sir. I shall protest against it so far
as I am concerned. _I have faith in prayer_, and shall wait,"
exclaimed May. "It is because every thing is draped in materialism
that we do not receive more aid from the heavenly powers."

The door opened suddenly, and Walter Jerrold came in, looking pale and
haggard. He grasped May's hand, and bowed to Mr. Fielding, who,
muttering and angry, made his exit.

"What is the matter, Mr. Jerrold?" inquired May, kindly.

"Helen seems ill, and I have brought the carriage for you, May. She
asks continually for you, and fears you will not come."

"I will go with you instantly," she said, and ran into her dressing
closet to put on her hat and scarf. "What ails Helen?"

"That is more than I can tell you. She has feverish nights, and is
silent and depressed. We made up a party last week to go to the
cathedral, during the 'Mission,' to hear a celebrated preacher. Helen
went very unwillingly, and since then she has been moping and starting,
and altogether in a strange mood, for one who _ought_ to be happy,"
replied Mr. Jerrold, with a gloomy air. By this time they had got down
stairs, and May was seated in the splendid carriage, on her way to
Upperton-square.

"Poor Helen! I hope it may be in my power to save her. What does her
physician say?"

"That is the most singular part of the thing. She positively refuses
to see one. Indeed, May, to be frank with you, I fear there is
something dreadful preying on Helen's mind. She sees no company; and
although she had prepared to go to Newport with my mother, she declined
going: in fact, it's all a mist, and I am puzzled to death to find out
the end of it."

"Mr. Jerrold," said straightforward May, "these are all the signs of a
troubled conscience. Did you know that Helen was once a Catholic, and
in virtually abandoning her religion, she is only suffering the pangs
of a soul which cannot be at rest in its apostasy?"

"Do you really believe this, May?" he asked, eagerly.

"I really do. Religion is a _vital principle_. It cannot be torn from
the soul without inflicting the most incurable wounds," she replied,
while her eyes filled up with tears; "and these wounds give birth to an
anguish, which is the prelude of eternal woe!"

"_Why_ did she do it, May? _I_ did not require it. It is true I was
better pleased to have her a Protestant, but I