"
"I will come down for you immediately. Excuse me, Mrs. Jerrold," said
May, who hurrying out, was met by Father Fabian. He spoke kindly to
Helen, bowed courteously to the strangers, and went up stairs.
"Who is that, dear?" asked Mrs. Jerrold, whose attention had been
arrested by the dignified courtesy of Father Fabian's manner.
"A Catholic clergyman," said Helen, blushing.
"Your uncle is not a Catholic?"
"He was not, but he is now."
A look of ineffable scorn spread over Mrs. Jerrold's handsome face,
while a low, contemptuous laugh from her son, was the response.
"Dear Helen," said Mrs. Jerrold, taking the weak girl's hand in her
own, with a caress, "excuse me, for no doubt you still feel some
hankering after those mysterious idolatries which you have wisely
abandoned; but this is so absurd. How came it about?"
"I cannot imagine," she replied, in a faltering voice; for at that
moment the thorn-crowned head of Jesus Christ--his sorrowful face
stained with drops of blood, until its divinely beautiful lineaments
were almost covered--was visioned in her soul with such distinctness,
that she almost shrieked; then it faded away, and she went on:
"I have seen very little of my uncle since his illness. He keeps my
cousin May by his side, and is uneasy if she leaves him an instant."
"And she is a Catholic?" asked Mrs. Jerrold, anxiously.
"Yes, a perfect devotee," replied Helen, bitterly.
"An infatuation! He is weak; his nerves and senses are shattered by
this attack.
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