yesterday, I all at once remembered a Catholic woman--she was a
half-Indian, half-nigger, from the West Indies--that I used to do a
good turn for now and then. She was dying with consumption, and she
used to talk to me about the saints in glory praying for us, the
blessed mother of Jesus Christ, and purgatory, in her broken lingo,
till I b'lieved every word she said. I was trying to recollect, arter
you left me, and it all come pat into my head at once."

"These are consoling, helpful, and holy doctrines, Aunt Mabel; but tell
me if you are satisfied that the Roman Catholic Church is the true
Church of God?" said May, smoothing her withered hand.

"I can't 'splain myself, honey; but thar's something in here that tells
me _it is_," said the simple old creature, laying her hand on her
breast.

"And that _something_ is a great and glorious gift, Aunt Mabel--the
gift of FAITH. But hear what our dear Lord said, before he ascended to
his Father; here is your old Protestant Bible, which your good mistress
used to read to you so long ago. I will find it in this," said May,
taking down the shattered old copy of the Scriptures from its shelf.
"First of all, our Lord established his Church on earth. It was the
object of his divine mission. Then he endowed his apostles with
heavenly gifts and authority to do even as he had done; and declared
that his Church was 'founded on a rock, against which the gates of hell
should never prevail.'"

"And his word and his promise never fail, honey, because he is the Lord
God," said the old woman.