"Helen? yes, sir; shall I bring all the papers—or are those you wish me to burn, numbered?" asked May, taking the candle with her.
"Yes, yes; numbered—1, 2, 3,—1796—1799—1800."
"Here they are, sir."
"Lay them there—under the blaze—so—so—so—perish—so blot out—so farewell the past. Forgive me the sins of my pride—of my ignorance—of my avarice—through, the bitter passion of Jesus Christ—forgive me—as I forgive—all," he murmured, as he watched the rapid destruction of these records of his life.
"Take a spoonful of this," said May, holding some brandy to his lips. He drank it, and cast a long, earnest, loving look on her, drew her face towards his, and kissed her forehead.
"The blessing of Almighty God abide with you, little one; hand me that, now," he said, looking towards the crucifix, "lay it here—where my eyes can rest on it—so." He never spoke again; but, with the image of the CRUCIFIED in view, his failing eyes gradually and softly closed. May thought he slept. So he did, but he slept the sleep of death.
Helen had fled up to her room, locked the door, and, with a white, pallid face, and trembling fingers, took the will from her bosom and opened it.
"To May—to May—to May—beloved niece—I knew it; but May shall never have it," she said, through her set teeth, as her eye ran rapidly over it. "They will think she burned it with those papers. I am saved—I shall marry Jerrold!" A mouse gnawing in her wainscot near her, caused her to start up and look around; and there, looking down from the cross, where the sins of the world had hung Him, was the image of His divine and woeful face. In the flickering light, the drops of blood appeared to flow from those cruel wounds, and the thorn-crowned head seemed to droop towards her. With a shuddering cry, she fell heavily to the floor. But the paroxysm passed away—she remembered her crime, and, fearful of detection—for already had conscience begun to scourge her—she flew to her trunk, and touching a spring in the side, a secret compartment slid back, revealing a narrow interstice between the body of the trunk and the exterior. In this she dropped the will, and fastened it securely. What and who instigated her to evil? Shall any dare say it was religion? She was a Catholic by birthright—but an alien from the practices of her holy faith by choice, and through human pride and worldliness—did its spirit lead her into crime? Judge of its effects by May's humble and earnest life. She was true and practical in her character, and acted out the precepts of her faith. Judge it, by the wonderful change it effected in the harsh and bitter nature of that hoary man, whom it excited to acts of perfect Christian virtue, and who, full of humble hope, had just breathed his last.
Who would measure the patriotism and purity of Washington, by the treason of Arnold? Dare not then, be guilty of the manifest injustice of judging the Church by the conduct of those, who, although bearing her sign on their foreheads, become traitors to her holy precepts, and scandalize her in their lives.