Helen, destroy it: you do not know what may be the consequences, and already you have got some strange notions. But there is the melancholy look returning. Come, we will not talk on such inexplicable subjects ;" and seizing her cousin's hand, she drew, or rather dragged, her to her companions, who were at a little distance.

But Louisa, in her serious moments, could not help reflecting on her cousin's altered views. She could not, either, dismiss from her mind the last hours of her beloved father's life; and her heart ached in the consciousness that, on one side or the other, something must be wrong. Yet Helen appeared happy,-happier than she ever remembered her in by-gone days: there was no change in her naturally amiable deportment,—the same sweetness of disposition, the same willingness to oblige all around her; and Louisa wondered, as many do in similar circumstances, why anything more should be considered necessary, besides an observance of the ceremonies of the Church. Once, Helen thought these binding and sacred,-now, she avowed indifference towards them; and Louisa at last came to the conclusion that her cousin must, after all, be in a most dangerous state; and that, if she had not already, she was in a fair way of departing altogether from the "only true Church."

CHAPTER IV.

"Where the seed hath been

There shall the fruitage, glowing yet, be seen."

THE time had now arrived when the cousins must bid farewell to Llanarwyn. Their education had been successfully carried on; in their various studies they had made more than usual proficiency, and in accomplishments generally bore away the palm. They were now about to enter the domestic circle, there to exemplify and practically to develope the principles and sentiments they had imbibed.

Since the death of her husband, Mrs. Llewellyn had lived in comparative retirement. The Roman Catholics in the neighbourhood were not numerous, and with others she was unwilling to associate. Firm and unwavering in her attachment to the faith of her ancestors, she regarded with feelings of pity, bordering on contempt, those who differed from her in religious views; and though affectionate and. kind to those of her own persuasion, she was another being, and she deemed it her duty to be so, to those who professed not the faith of Rome. Her trials, instead of softening her heart, and rendering her more accessible to the

emotions of kindness and forbearance, had served only to make her more intolerant, and to bind more firmly around her the chains of bigotry.

And was it with such a being that the gentle Helen was to reside? Would she not endeavour by threats, and entreaties, and persuasions, to bring her back to the Romish faith? Would these be successful? And would Helen renounce her happiness and hopes of heaven, and turn again to the unsatisfactory and unmeaning ceremonies of the Church? It could not be.

The affectionate, though pensive, smile with which Mrs. Llewellyn greeted the cousins on their arrival at Linburn-Hall, was calculated to excite interest in a less susceptible heart than that of Helen; and as her aunt fondly pressed them to her bosom, and welcomed her only child to the home of her fathers, she thought how suited would be the religion of the Bible to such a sorrowful heart. Mrs. Llewellyn, notwithstanding her efforts at cheerfulness, was pale and dejected; and though the lively sallies of Louisa, and the gentle attentions of Helen, might win a smile, yet she appeared far from being happy. But she treated both with unmingled tenderness, and seemed in some degree to rise above her long depression.

It will easily be supposed that the discerning eye of Mrs. Llewellyn was not slow in detect

ing the altered views of her niece. Helen, indeed, attempted no concealment: "Truth is great, and must prevail," was her motto; and timid though she was, and ready to shrink from the idea of wounding the feelings of another, yet her mind was made up on one all-important subject. She had tasted of the water of life; she had drunk of the " streams that make glad the city of God; " her heart had accepted the Gospel salvation; and she experienced the hallowed and sanctifying influences of the "wisdom that cometh from above." Her light, therefore, could not be hidden; it shone with a bright unwavering lustre; and the amiableness of her deportment was rendered still more visible by the adornment of Christian graces.

"Helen," said Mrs. Llewellyn to her niece one evening, as they sat at work in her boudoir, "I think you have not attended confession since your return home. Father Basil has mentioned the subject to me more than once; and, as regards himself, you need not be at all timid,—he regards you as his own child.”

"Father Basil is kind," returned Helen, hesitatingly.

"Yes, my love, and as he will be here to-morrow, you will have an opportunity of performing this most necessary duty."

"Do you think confession essential to salvation, aunt?" inquired Helen.

"Certainly," replied Mrs. Llewellyn: “I am surprised at your asking such a question. Do you doubt it?"

"I confess I do, aunt. It seems to me to be absurd to suppose that one person can forgive the sins of another. Is it not sufficient to confess to God?"

"You are too presumptuous, Helen," said Mrs. Llewellyn; "but I am willing to believe that ignorance is the cause of your error, and that this is a device of Satan to lead you from the truth. We are commanded to 'confess our faults one to another, that we may be healed;' and is not this a sacrament appointed by our holy Church, against whose authority we have no right to appeal?"

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But, dear aunt," returned Helen, "if we are to confess to one another, we may confess to any one. Besides, we are not told that we shall be forgiven because we confess our faults: it is he that believeth' that 'shall be saved :' neither are we anywhere commanded in Scripture to confess to a Priest. God says, 'I, even I, am he that blotteth out thy transgression for my name's sake, and will not remember thy sin;' and who can forgive sins but God alone?"