"Do you play on the piano?" said Mr. Stillinghast, abruptly, to Helen.
"No, sir; I play on the harp," she replied, amazed.
"Do you play well?"
"My master thought so, sir."
"I will order one for you to-morrow. I expect company to tea to-morrow evening, so put on any fandangos you have got."
"Yes, sir," she replied, while her face sparkled with delight; "I can never thank you, sir."
"I don't want you to, so be quiet, and do as I bid you," he replied, roughly.
"Poor Helen!" thought May; "poor—poor Helen! 'they seek after her soul,' and she, oh, weak one! how will she resist without the sacraments?"
After Mr. Stillinghast retired, and they were left alone, Helen again opened a French novel to resume her reading, without exchanging a word with her cousin. Thoughts and emotions were flooding May's soul with impulses she dared not resist. She must warn her. She must stretch out her arm, weak though it was, to save her.
"Helen! dear Helen, listen to me!" she said, kneeling before her, and throwing an arm around her neck, while she laid her hand on her cousin's. Helen, astonished, dropped her book, and remained passive, while May besought her by her hopes of heaven to accompany her the next morning to confession, or go alone, as both could not leave home together; then set before her in eloquent and soul-touching language the peril into which her prevarications were leading her.