There was a wild,
feverish light in her eyes, and her white lips quivered incessantly.
"Helen--dear Helen!" said May, holding out her hands.
"'_If you are sick, or sorrowful, or repentant, send for me_.' You
said this to me some time ago, May. The promise is claimed," she said,
feebly.
"And I am here, dear Helen. How can I aid you?"
"First go and close that door. I have a most inconveniently zealous
French waiting-maid, who pretends not to understand English, that she
may gather as much information about one's private affairs as possible."
"I encountered her on the stairs," said May, closing the door carefully.
"Now, lay off your things, little woman. Sit here where I can see you,
and tell me if you are not dazzled by all this splendor, and if you do
not think I ought to be the happiest woman on earth?"
"No, dear Helen; it is very rich and beautiful, but it does not dazzle
me. And so far from thinking you ought to be the happiest woman on
earth, I think you ought to be the most miserable, until contrition and
repentance lead you back, humble and weeping, to the sacraments you
have deserted," said May, bravely.
"Just the same ridiculous little thing!" said Helen, with a faint
smile. "But, May, suppose even that I _felt_ those dispositions, do
you know what it would cost me to practice them?"
"A few worldly pleasures, perhaps, which are so fleeting that they are
not worth a thought--a few vain triumphs, full of envy--heart-burnings
and aspirations, which, while they waste the energies of an immortal
soul, rise no higher than your head, and fall like black, misshapen
lava at your feet.
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