“Mamma used to read to me out of the Bible,” said little Mary, as her long lashes swept her cheek. Helen started; a bright crimson flush passed over her face, and bending low, she kissed the child’s forehead reverentially. “About the crucifixion, please,” said Mary, as Helen seated herself by her side. That Holy Book! Helen felt as if her hands were “unclean.” She began to read; perhaps the print might not have been clear; but she stopped often, and drew her small hand across her eyes. Her voice grew tremulous. Years of worldliness had come between her and that sad, touching story. It came upon her now with startling force and freshness. Earth, with its puerile cares and pleasures, dwindled to a point. Oh, what “cross” had her shoulders borne? What “crown of thorns” had pierced her brows? How had her careless feet turned aside from the footsteps of Calvary’s meek sufferer! “Thank you,” said little Mary, rousing Helen from her reverie; “mamma used to pray to God to make me patient, and take me to Heaven.” Tears started to Helen’s eyes. How could she tell that sinless little one she _knew not how to pray_? Ah! _she_ was the pupil, Mary the teacher! Laying her cheek to hers, she said in a soft whisper, “Pray for _us both_, dear Mary.” With sweet, touching, simple eloquence that little silvery voice floated on the air! The little emaciated hand upon which Helen’s face was pressed, was wet with tears--_happy_ tears! Oh, this was what that restless soul had craved! Here at “the cross,” that world-fettered spirit should plume itself for an angel’s ceaseless flight. Aye, and a little _child had led “her” there_! * * * * * Adolph Grey wandered listlessly through that brilliant ball-room. There were sweet voices, and sweeter faces, and graceful, floating forms; but his eye rested on none of them. “Pray, where is Lady Helen?” said he, wandering up to his gay hostess, with a slight shade of embarrassment. “Ah, you may well ask that! I’m _so_ vexed at her! Every man in the room is as savage as a New Zealander. She has turned Methodist, that’s all. Just imagine; our peerless Helen thumbing greasy hymn-books at vestry meetings, listening to whining preachers, and hunting up poor dirty beggar children! I declare, I thought she had too much good sense. Well, there it is; and you may as well hang _your_ harp on the willows. She’ll have nothing to say to you _now_; for you know you are a sinner, Grey.” “Very true,” said Grey, as he went into the ante-room to cloak himself for a call upon Helen; “I _am_ a sinner; but if any woman can make a saint of me, it is Lady Helen. I have looked upon women only as toys to pass away the time; but under that gay exterior of Helen’s there was always something to which my better nature bowed in reverence. ‘A Methodist,’ is she? Well, be it so. She has a soul above yonder frivolity, and I respect her for it.” * * * * *