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!_" Again the clear sonorous voice of the speaker, filled with a
tender cadence and solemn sweetness, enunciated the words. Why does
Helen think of her picture at home--of the pitying glance it cast on
her the night she committed that crime, which had almost wrecked her
soul? Why does she think of her interposition that very morning which
had saved her from self-murder? It was from no voluntary will of her
own; but these visions came, subduing and touching the rind of her
weary heart, until it heaved with the throes of a new birth. She
listens now. She cannot do otherwise, for the powerful voice of the
preacher rings out clear, distinct, and impressive. His eloquence
enchains every heart; in burning words, he assails every soul.
Unbelievers, heretics, infidels, and lukewarm Catholics, hang on every
sentence; nor disdain the tears which flow, while he tells of the
dolors of Mary. Almost fainting, Helen leaned forward, and shaded her
face; there was a pent-up agony in her heart, her brain ached, and the
throbbing of her pulses almost suffocated her; and when the preacher
ceased, she leaned back with a sigh of relief.
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