Stricken and afraid, she would have fled from the spot, but she could not move; her temples throbbed and her limbs trembled, when, lifting her eyes, she beheld a portrait of the mother of Sorrows, whose countenance, sublime in its blended tenderness and grief, seemed to look down with pity on her.  She sunk weeping to the floor, and murmured, “Intercede for me, oh, Lady of Sorrows!  I have wounded thy Divine Son by my transgressions; I fear to approach Him, who is my terrible Judge; pity me, then, that I may not become utterly cast away!” Then she wept softly, and it seemed that, in this hour of keen repentance, the errors of the past would be atoned for—­that a new life would dawn around her; that in prodigal’s attire of repentance and tears, she would return humbly to her Father’s house.  But the spirit of the world had wound its deadly fetters too closely around her; the time of her return and purification, and welcome—­if it ever came, was veiled in the future; but that passionate soul-felt appeal to the Refuge of Sinners was registered where it would return in benedictions when the soul weary of its wanderings, sought for forgiveness and peace—­if it ever did.  And, after all, ere sleep visited her eyelids, she was plunged again in plans of petty ambition, vanity, and the pride of life,—­so impotent is the human heart, unsupported by the grace of God.

Twelve o’clock chimed from the old French clock over the mantel, and May, all unconscious of Helen’s struggle with conscience, still waited to hear any sound that might come from Mr. Stillinghast’s chamber:  but everything remained quiet, and she was wrapping her shawl around her to go up to bed, when she thought she heard a groan—­then footsteps, followed by a peculiar muffled sound.  In a moment she was in the hall, where she heard it more distinctly, and springing up the staircase, rushed into her uncle’s room.  By some rare forgetfulness, or bewilderment, he had left his door unfastened.  The candle was still burning, and May saw him lying on the floor, where he had fallen in his endeavor to reach the door to call for assistance; his face purple and swollen, and his breath gurgling up with a choking, spasmodic sound.

“Great God, help me!” cried May, throwing up her arms wildly.  “He will die before I can obtain help!” But she was not the one to stand lamenting when aught was to be done, so, collecting her scattered senses, she bethought herself of the watchman, who was just at that moment crying the hour at the corner.  She flew down, unlocked the hall-door, and springing out into the freezing mist and darkness, she found him, seized his hand, and told her story.  “Go, for God’s sake! for the nearest doctor; do not delay an instant.”

“Who are you, you wild witch, grabbing a fellow like a cat!  Who are you?” cried the watchman, shaking her off.

“I am the niece of old Mark Stillinghast.  He is dying, I fear,” she cried, wringing her hands.