en do you expect to see your
uncle?"

"Would you have me accept the offer of my father, dear madam, or am I to
remain separated from him for the short residue of his life?"

Mrs. Fitzgerald was affected to tears, as she asked this question, and
waited her answer, in silent dread of its nature.

"Is the condition of a change of religion, an immovable one?" inquired
Mrs. Wilson, in a thoughtful manner.

"Oh! doubtless," replied Julia, shuddering; "but I am deservedly punished
for my early disobedience, and bow in submission to the will of
Providence. I feel now all that horror of a change of my religion, I once
only affected; I must live and die a Protestant, madam."

"Certainly, I hope so, my dear," said Mrs. Wilson; "I am not a bigot, and
think it unfortunate you were not, in your circumstances, bred a pious
Catholic. It would have saved you much misery, and might have rendered
the close of your father's life more happy; but as your present creed
embraces doctrines too much at variance with the Romish church to renounce
the one or to adopt the other, with your views, it will be impossible to
change your church without committing a heavy offence against the opinions
and practices of every denomination of Christians. I should hope a proper
representation of this to your uncle would have its weight, or they might
be satisfied with your being a Christian, without becoming a Catholic."

"Ah! my dear madam," answered Mrs. Fitzgerald, despairingly, "you little
know the opinions of my countrymen on this subject."

"Surely, surely," cried Mrs. Wilson, "parental affection is a stronger
feeling than bigotry."

Mrs. Fitzgerald shook her head in a manner which bespoke both her
apprehensions and her filial regard.

"Julia ought not, must not, desert her father, dear aunt," said Emily, her
face glowing with the ardency of her feelings.

"And ought she to desert her heavenly Father, my child?" asked the aunt,
mildly.

"Are the duties conflicting, dearest aunt?"

"The Conde makes them so. Julia is, I trust, in sincerity a Christian, and
with what face can she offer up her daily petitions to her Creator, while
she wears a mask to her earthly father; or how can she profess to honor
doctrines that she herself believes to be false, or practise customs she
thinks improper?"

"Never, never," exclaimed Julia, with fervor; "the struggle is dreadful,
but I submit to the greater duty."

"And you decide rightly, my friend," said M