"When you thought I went to the cathedral—I went to the chapel!" "But Molly?" exclaimed Winifred, astonished. "I bribed her. She waited outside. It was Doctor Butler who took me there. I met him at my cousin's, and then at my Lady Germaine's. They are Catholics, you know, but she was not to blame, nor Father Kennedy. They said I was deceiving my parents—that it would come to no good. Doctor Butler took me to Father Hewling. They flattered and coaxed me, especially Doctor Butler." "But how could you have anything to do with him?" Winifred could not help saying. "You knew what a bad man he has been, and all the trouble he made in your cousin Chester's family. It has been town talk!" "I was a conceited fool!" said Paulina. "He made me think myself a martyr and a saint, and persuaded me to deceive my mother. I was wretched all the time. I see all now—all so clearly!" "You mean that you see the truth now," said Winifred, fearing the effect of every word, yet desiring, for the sake of the poor girl's parents, to have something of comfort to repeat. "Yes, indeed—all! Winifred, say those verses in the Communion Service." Winifred's gentle voice repeated the "comfortable words." Paulina caught eagerly at the last verse. "Yes, that is it! He is the propitiation. It has all been made plain to me the last few hours! I could think, though I could not speak. Oh, how I have been misled!" "Paulina, you must not say one word more!" said Winifred, with the authority she well knew how to assume. "I shall find it hard to answer to the doctor for what has already passed. Now take some more wine, be silent, and let me read you to sleep." "Pray—pray!" said Paulina, eagerly. "For forgiveness—that I may make amends to my dear parents!" Winifred knelt by the bedside, and prayed as desired, and then, softly repeating psalms and verses of Scripture, she had at last the satisfaction of seeing her patient sink into a quiet sleep. She herself was worn out by watching, and, leaning her head upon the bedside, she slumbered for half an hour, starting like a guilty creature, as the first rays of the sun aroused her. Full of terror and reproach, she glanced at her patient. Paulina was sleeping, her breathing faint indeed, but regular, while a change, indescribable save to those who have seen it, had come over her face. "Surely, surely she must be—she is better!" thought Winifred. "Oh, if she is but spared after all!" She drew the curtain to shut out the sun, and as she did so, the sick girl awoke—not as before to muttering delirium or sad, half-conscious moaning, but with a look of full reason and a faint, but natural smile. "You are better, sweetheart!" said Winifred, bending over her. "O yes! Surely I am better! My mind and body are in most bland ease. Is this the lighting up before death of which I have heard, or am I going to get well?" Winifred half feared the first, and anxiously did she await the doctor's opinion.