first wild and indignant emotions had subsided.

Another low mocking laugh sounded in her ears, then she found herself
alone. "This is dreadful, and hard to bear," she murmured, as she went
out; "but Father Fabian says, that _trials_ are divine and royal gifts!
If I lived only for _this_ life I would never--I could _not_ bear it,
but living for eternity, I cannot afford to lose a single lesson of the
rudiments of perfection."

"That girl," thought Mr. Stillinghast, "is a mystery. She is either a
profound hypocrite, or an honest Christian. This scene, however, has
fixed my resolves. That Helen may be a fool, but she's not much of a
papist. Odds, it will hardly require the temptation of a handsome
husband, and a splendid settlement, to make her forswear her creed. I
will see Jerrold this very day." When he arrived at his
counting-house, he went directly to his desk, and penned a note, which
he directed and sealed, then handed it to his porter to take to Mr.
Jerrold. Then he perched himself on his high writing-stool, and
opening his books, attempted to go on as usual with the business of the
day. But there was something unquiet tugging at his conscience, which
did not allow him to do so. He paused frequently, with his pen poised
over his inkstand, or paper, and fell into reveries, which ended with
expressions which burst out like shots from a revolver. It was now
"Pshaw!" then, "I hate it worse than I do the synagogue;" or, "it is
_not_ injustice! Have I not a right to do as I please with my own
property?" and "I'll do it as sure as my name is Mark Stillinghast."

"Mr. Jerrold was away at bank, sir," said the porter, who had returned;
"and, sir, I left the note."