ceased, and the sound of low regular breathing, assured her that she had fallen asleep.  She rose up gently, wrapped her wadded gown about her, lowered the blinds, and closed the shutters, that the light might not disturb Helen; then laid an additional blanket over her, for it was bitter cold, and placed the candle which she had lighted behind an old-timed Chinese screen, that formed a sort of a niche in a corner of the room, which she, in her pious thoughtfulness, had converted into an oratory.  A small round table, covered with white drapery, supported a statue of the Immaculate Mother, a porcelain shelf for holy water and her prayer-book.  Over it hung an old and rare crucifix of carved ivory, stained with color which time had softened to the hues of life, while the features wore that mingled look of divine dignity and human woe which but few artists, in their delineations of the “thorn-crowned head,” can successfully depict.  It had been brought from Spain many years before by her father, with a cabinet picture of Mater Dolorosa, which now hung over it.  Both were invaluable, not only on account of their artistic excellence and age, but as mementos of her father, and incentives to devotion.  Thither she now went to offer the first fruits of the day to heaven in mingled thanksgiving and prayer.  Almost numbed with the intense cold, she felt inclined to abridge her devotions, but she remembered the cold, dreary journey of the holy family from Nazareth to Bethlehem—­the ruggedness of the road, and the bitter winds which swept through the mountain defiles around them—­then she lingered in the poor stable, and knelt with the shepherds beside the manger where Jesus Christ in the humility of his sacred humanity reposed.  She pictured to herself the Virgin Mother in the joyful mystery of her maternity, bending over him with a rapture too sublime for words; and St. Joseph—­wonderfully dignified as the guardian of divinity, and of her whom the most high had honored, leaning on his staff near them.  “Shall I dare complain?” thought May, while these blessed images came into her heart warming it with generous love.  “No sweet and divine Lord, let all human ills, discomforts, repinings, and love of self vanish before these sweet contemplations.  With thee, in Bethlehem, poverty and sorrow grow light; and the weariness of the rough ways of life no more dismay.  Let me follow with thee, sweet mother, after his footsteps, until Calvary is crowned by a sacrifice and victim so divine that angels, men, and earth wonder; let me, with thee, linger by his cross, follow him to his sepulture, and rejoice with thee in his resurrection.”  Do not let us suppose that May, in the overflowing of her devout soul, forgot others, and thought only of herself; oh, no! that charity, without which, all good works are as “sounding brass,” animated her faith; as tenderly and lovingly she plead at the mercy seat for her stern old guardian; and although she knew that he scorned all religion, and would have given