"Oh yes. Father Fabian. He instructed me in the divine mysteries of our
holy faith. He has been my director ever since I was a little child.
But how was it with you, dear Helen?"

"I have lived a great deal with Protestants, May," replied Helen, after a
short pause. "_My_ father was a major in the army--the only brother of
the old man here. He was a Catholic, but he was always so full of
official business that he had very little time to attend to religion, and
all that kind of thing. His official duties engrossed his time entirely.
But he always impressed it on my mind that it would be extremely
dishonorable not to avow myself a Catholic when occasions demanded it;
and I believe he would have been pleased to see me practise my faith. I
was sent to a convent school in Louisiana when I was ten years of age,
but was suddenly removed, to accompany my father to Boston, to which
place he was ordered. _There_ I was surrounded by persons of fashion and
position, who made eyes at me when I told them I was a Catholic, and
declared I would lose _caste_ if I went to a church which was attended
only by the 'low Irish, and servant girls.' Then I heard Catholics
derided as superstitious and ignorant, until, I must confess it, I grew
_ashamed_ of being one. My father was too busy to think of me,--he
always saw me well-dressed and in good company, and imagined that all
else was going well with me; while _I_, proud, flattered, and enjoying
the world, fancied that it was of little importance while I was so young.
My poor father was a brave and gallant officer; and I think when he
sometimes declared with a dignified air that 'he and his daughter were
Catholics,' it was more from the feeling which makes a soldier swear by
his flag, than any higher motive. This has been my religious training;
but my dear, indulgent father is dead--gone for ever, and I am
_here_--here--Oh, May!" and Helen wept on May's shoulder.