Llewellyn, rising hastily from her seat: "I have something to show you."

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Helen instantly rose, and followed her aunt, though somewhat surprised at her unusually abrupt manner: she, however, said nothing: and Mrs. Llewellyn ascended the wide staircase of the hall, and proceeded through several spacious apartments, till they arrived at a part Helen seldom visited. "I have a portrait to show you, love," whispered she; one that I have very unexpectedly received during your absence from us." And, crossing herself reverently, she unlocked a low door, over which was a marble crucifix. "This is it, Helen," continued her aunt, uncovering a picture, elegantly framed: "you will, perhaps, recognise the features."

Helen started. "My mother!" exclaimed she, gazing intently on the exquisitely beautiful features: "it must be!"

"It is, my dear," replied her aunt. "You strikingly resemble her," continued she, after a pause: "since your return, your every word and look have reminded me powerfully of her. Do you remember her at all?”

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"O yes, aunt!" said Helen, bursting into tears: she was always so kind and so gentle, and she would look sometimes so sadly at Raymond and me, and press us to her bosom,

and tell us to love one another very dearly, for she should soon leave us. O, I can never forget my own dear mamma!"

"Yes, she

Mrs. Llewellyn was affected. was kind, and gentle, and amiable," said she: "there was an indescribable something in her manner that won affection, and secured esteem; and the bright expression of her blue eye seemed almost capable of chasing away sadness."

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'But, aunt, is there not too much gaiety in that countenance? I remember my mamma as being beautiful, though somewhat pale and melancholy. Perhaps I am mistaken."

"No, love that portrait was taken when your mamma knew nothing of sorrow, but the name; when she was the life, the soul of our circle; and her vivacity and intelligence threw around her the most attractive spell. You were then an infant. It was the early death of your papa, together with declining health, brought on by excessive mental anxiety, that so prematurely shaded her brow, and eventually laid her in the tomb."

"But she had no wish to live, aunt; she rejoiced in the prospect of departure; and though Father Basil said she had dreadfully erred in leaving the Romish Church, yet, who that saw her end could wish to die more peacefully than she did?"

"You do not mean to say, Helen, that this was a proof she had not erred?" asked Mrs. Llewellyn, looking inquiringly at her niece.

"I do not know, aunt," replied Helen. "If the religion my mamma possessed could enable her to meet death so triumphantly, and to anticipate it so calmly and confidently, surely it could not be error!"

"I hope, my dear Helen, that you have not been tainted with anything like heresy, whilst from home," said Mrs. Llewellyn: you were not wont to talk in this way."

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"With nothing, I hope, contrary to the Word of truth, my dearest aunt," replied Helen; "and this you know is your guide."

"Yes, love, as explained by the Priests. I dare not presume to trust my own judgment in what is of such vast importance."

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'But, aunt, the Priests themselves are only men, and as such, fallible: are we then right in depending on their judgment, without examining for ourselves? especially as they would deny us access to the Word of God? I think there is something suspicious in it: truth will bear investigation."

"You must not speak lightly of these things, Helen: it does not become you to dispute the authority of the Church. May I ask where you acquired such notions?"

"You know, aunt, it was my mamma's dying request that her children should read the Bible; and I distinctly remember, as she for the last time bade us farewell, she presented two to a person in attendance, saying, 'One is for Raymond, Benson; and the other for Helen. God grant that they may be made wise unto salvation by their holy contents!'" Well, Helen?"

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"The sudden illness of a relative, aunt, obliged Benson to leave us a few days after mamma's death; and when she heard that we were placed under your care, she thought it better to keep them until we were a little older, and able to read and understand them. she knew you were averse to our reading the Protestant Bible, she was at a loss what course to take; when, hearing where I was at school, she brought me one, and informed me of my mamma's wishes."

As

"Did Miss Campbell know of this?" inquired Mrs. Llewellyn.

"I believe not, aunt," replied Helen.

"But why, Helen," asked her aunt, "did you not acquaint me with it? You must know that I am interested in your welfare."

"O yes, dear aunt! I needed no interpreter to explain that," returned Helen. "It was," continued she, hesitating, "it was because"

"Because, Helen, you knew that your aunt would prevent you from reading what was above your comprehension. I see how it is: you have been studying the Protestant Bible, unaided by any judgment except your own; and have thus acquired notions, not only false, but dangerous to your own peace. We must have them examined."

"Willingly, my dearest aunt!" said Helen. "I do not fear the result of an impartial investigation."

Mrs. Llewellyn looked thoughtful, but was silent; and Helen placed herself before the portrait, to take a farewell look before they left the room.

"I am aware, Helen," said her aunt at last, "that you are acquainted with your mamma's history; but I was not prepared to expect that in any degree you approved her error and apostasy."

"If I thought it error, I could not," returned Helen; "but I cannot, cannot believe that my beloved mamma laboured under any delusion as regarded the things of eternity. How could I bear to think that she was not now happy?"

"It would be an agonizing thought, my love," replied her aunt, in a gentler tone; "but secret things belong unto God, and we must not strive to pierce into futurity. All,