rely on our own unaided reason and judgment. There are many things in revealed religion which even Protestants accept and profess to believe without understanding them. Remember that now we see through a glass darkly.' But God has accorded to the appointed teachers in the true Church of Christ a clearer vision than to others; they are not 'tossed to and fro with every wind of doctrine,' but are 'endowed with certain high and supernatural privileges.* That Church, of which our Lord himself distinctly said, I will build my Church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it,' can never fall into error in any matter of faith, or doctrines, or morals."

"Pardon me, Rudolph. But how does that assumption of perfection agree with these words-I think I quote them aright- The whole world lieth in wickedness'? And if there were no wickedness among you, what do you want with penances and indulgences ?"

"There can be no wickedness in the Church, Bertha, though there is among its members and followers. Happily for sinners, the Church is invested with a power for the remission of sins to those who are truly penitent, who have had recourse to the sacrament of penance, and have somewhat cancelled their sins by prayer, fasting, alms, and other good works. The Church-the apostolic Church-is 'the steward of God's mysteries,' to it was granted from its foundation the power to remit and to retain sin. There is an inexhaustible fund of spiritual treasure confided to the Church-namely, the superabundant satisfaction of Christ and his saints. Out of this indulgences are accorded-accorded under certain conditions to sinful souls here-and even available for souls in purgatory. But heretics do not believe in purgatory."

Well, heretic as I am," said the countess, "I feel very much inclined to believe in an intermediate state—a state of probation for spirits."

"The fathers of the Church held the belief of that intermediate state," replied Rudolph. "St. Augustine says: 'During the time which elapses between death and the last resurrection, souls are detained in hidden receptacles, and, according as they are worthy or unworthy, they are in repose or affliction.” ”

"There are degrees of guilt and degrees of virtue in this world, and I cannot reconcile it to my ideas of the wisdom and justice of the Almighty," said Bertha," that He should condemn all grades of sin to the same amount of punishment, and admit all who are to be saved at once into the same fulness of happiness-into the society of angels, and the souls of the just made perfect."

Certainly; you mean to draw a distinction, and a very proper one, between venial and mortal sin. This is a doctrine of our Church, but, I think, denied by Protestants."

"It seems to me a very reasonable doctrine; and the existence of an intermediate state, where souls may be purified, is so consonant to my idea of the mercy and goodness of the Creator, that, though it may not be admitted by Protestants, and, indeed, is denounced in the articles of the Church of England, I cannot but indulge in the belief of it."

* Protestantism Weighed in its own Balance and found Wanting. Burns and Lambert.

Rudolph looked very much pleased, and said:

"Ah! I find my old playmate is not such a heretic, after all."

"I hope, then, that you intend to make friends, like a good Christian, and pray don't let us quarrel any more about religion. Shall I sing you some of the songs you used to like when you were a Heidelberg student ?"

Without waiting for an answer she went to the piano, and began to play some chords, for she was exceedingly frightened lest Rudolph, in the intention of following up his victory, should return to the charge, and attack her about transubstantiation, or some other Roman Catholic doctrine.

"Do you remember this?" she asked, as she played the symphony of a pretty song. "It is one which dear Agatha and I used to scream to

gether.'

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Nay, not scream, but warble together, dear Bertha."

The countess had a charming voice, which had been extremely well cultivated, therefore she sang delightfully, and Rudolph, who was passionately fond of music, looked as entranced as if he had been listening to St. Cecilia herself. Sweet dreams of the past were stealing over him -he felt again as he used to do in his happy boyish days-he forgot the present, the future, and stood gazing on Bertha with unchecked admiration and affection, which seemed to be welling up from the very depth of his soul.

At this critical moment Mrs. Lindsay made her appearance. Rudolph started, and turned deadly pale. Bertha stopped suddenly, and involuntarily exclaimed:

"Oh,

Flora!"

Her tone of reproach disconcerted Mrs. Lindsay very much, but she could not make herself invisible, and to rush out of the room forthwith she thought would be rather too pointed. Her entrance had broken the spell, and Mr. von Feldheim, once more calm and self-possessed as usual, took his leave, and left the ladies to themselves.

TII.

RUDOLPH'S ANGER WITH MRS. LINDSAY AND HIMSELF; HE RECEIVES A LETTER

FROM THE ABBOT.

RUDOLPH returned to his solitary apartment in no very enviable humour. He was angry at Mrs. Lindsay, and angry at himself; he sighed as he thought of the past, he groaned as he thought of the future; and the hours of the present that were fleeting so fast away— how strangely they were made up of happiness and of torture! Little did those who thought him so cold, measured, and apathetic, dream of the conflict that was going on in his mind-the internal fever that was consuming him!

On reaching his temporary home, he found a letter from the abbot of St. Dreux awaiting him. The sight of it did not tend to calm his perturbed spirit, yet he opened it eagerly. The abbot had written to inquire what progress he was making in the good work the conversion of the young countess. He mentioned that he had heard his niece had

lately become much more thoughtful; that she did not enter into so much gaiety as she had done on her first arrival at Düsseldorf; that she did not seem to have the intention of bestowing herself and her fortune on any of her Protestant admirers; and that she gave quite as much in charity to the Roman Catholic as to the Protestant poor.

When he had perused it, Rudolph cast the letter scornfully from him, and exclaimed, as he struck his forehead with his hand :

Designing, heartless man! Why was I ever so weak as to put myself under obligations to him? Why did I let him force this fatal mission upon me? Oh Bertha, Bertha! instead of converting you, I have lost my own peace of mind, and entailed misery upon myself. I am sorely, but justly punished for my culpable presumption, my sinful self-reliance. Shall I write that man that I throw up his mission? What! leave her-fly from her for ever? I ought to do this-but-I cannot! I have not courage to tear myself from her, never more to gaze on that beautiful face, never more to hear that enchanting voice. Still, am I not also ruining her peace? She is so artless that she cannot conceal her feelings towards me. If ever woman loved, she loves, and Ido I not love her madly? Yes, with a depth of passion which only death can extinguish."

Rudolph paced up and down his room in a perfect ferment of mind. His religious feelings and his growing passion for Bertha were at war with each other, and he was almost maddened by the thoughts of the past, the present, and the future of what had been, what was, and what might have been. But, habituated to self-command, he at length became calmer, and forced himself to commence the disagreeable duty of writing to his benefactor, the now almost hated abbot of St. Dreux.

He told him that the conversion of his niece would be a work of time; that her heretical prejudices were very strong, but her mind was candid and open to impressions; that she listened attentively to his arguments, and had even given in her adherence to more than one doctrine of the Church. He mentioned the book which he had persuaded her to read, and promised that his utmost efforts should still be directed towards winning her over to the true faith. He added that, as far as he could observe, she had no intention of marrying, and did not evince the slightest preference for any of her Protestant admirers.

"I wish she were not his niece!" he said to himself, with a sigh, as he folded the letter when he had finished it. "But what difference would that make to me, poor, wretched being that I am? Would that we had both died when we were happy children!"

Rudolph had left Bertha with the determination of absenting himself from her house for some time, but the abbot's letter afforded him a plea for continuing his visits without diminution of their frequency. He felt with poignant shame that he was acting like a hypocrite; that, under the mask of religious zeal, he was indulging feelings which he ought rather to resist and conquer; but he silenced his conscience by repeating to himself:

"If I could but convert her, and save her soul, it would little signify what became of me: the end would sanctify the means."

Thus disguising to himself the wrong that he might be doing, the disciple of Loyola recommenced the task which gave him at once so much pleasure and so much pain.

IV.

WHEREIN RUDOLPH ALMOST BETRAYS HIS FEELINGS.

On his next visit to the countess, Mrs. Lindsay, who had been vexed by the extreme annoyance her cousin had shown at her last unwelcome intrusion, determined, though much against her ideas of what was right, to leave Bertha and her Papist friend to a tête-à-tête, and she pertinaciously kept her own room.

Bertha sat on a sofa, with her work-table before her, while Rudolph occupied a bergère on the other side of it. The conversation, after a time, fell upon convent life, and the countess adverted to Rudolph's sister, the companion of her childhood. She said:

"I cannot imagine Agatha, gay and full of spirits as she used to be, a sad, sober nun. Tell me truly, did she really enter a convent by her own wish? Do you think she is really happy ?"

"I think that Agatha's happiness is infinitely more real than the socalled happiness of those who live immersed in the cares-nay, even surrounded by the transitory pleasures of this fleeting world. În it all is shadowy and uncertain: hope is an ignis fatuus, joy a state of temporary delirium. One of the English poets has well said:

This world is all a fleeting show,

For man's illusion given,

The smiles of joy, the tears of woe,
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow-

There's nothing true but Heaven!

The nun has nothing to distract her mind from the contemplation of the immortal future, and the calm performance of her religious duties."

6

"Still, we are told in that holy book, which is, or ought to be, the guide both to Protestants and Catholics, that there is a good fight to be fought, and that we are to count it all joy when we fall into divers temptations! These try our faith.' But, excuse me, I know you think the Bible beyond my comprehension; upon that point I fear we shall never agree, any more than we shall upon the great advantages to be gained here and hereafter by retiring into monasteries and convents.' She stopped a few moments, and then, as she was, perhaps, rather too much accustomed to do, ran on with her own thoughts aloud. "Dear Agatha ! when I remember her joyous temper, her sparkling wit, her mirthful sallies, I cannot fancy her a nun, any more than I can fancy you a monk.'

Rudolph started, and a sort of spasm seemed to pass over his features; but it was a momentary emotion; in an instant he was quite composed, and he asked her, with a smile, why she could not fancy him a monk.

"Oh! Rudolph," she answered, with her musical laugh, "the idea of your being a cold, stern, passionless, gloomy anchorite-it would be a sin against nature. I can easily think of my solemn, rigid, severe uncle as a monk. I picture the abbot to myself as a spiritual rather than an earthly being as one who, if he ever possessed any of the feelings of frail humanity, has conquered or outlived them all. I can look upon him as a sort of animated rock, as hard, as firm, as cold as

The rock of the ocean that stems

A thousand wild waves on the shore.

But not you, Rudolph-oh dear no! I fear I can't compliment you on being such a saint."

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"Alas, I am indeed no saint !" sighed her companion. "At least, you are no hypocrite-of that I am sure. Don't ever go into a monastery, Rudolph," she added, in a more jesting tone; poor ladies can't spare such a 'preux chevalier.' You are too useful in a ball-room, even though you won't dance."

"Useful in a ball-room, dear Bertha! that is not rating me very highly. There is not much of either head or heart required for that amount of worth. But, seriously speaking, a monastery might be the What have I to do in the world?

best place for me. tary, and unloved. would open to me?"

I am poor, soliUpon whose affection have I to lean? What career

"Many, many, Rudolph! You have youth, health, talents, a good education. Pardon me, why should you be a mere idle spectator of the game of life-why should you not carve a path to fame and fortune for yourself? You have but to exert the energies of your mind, and though your only near relative, your sister, has deserted you, still you have friends, and-and-why should you not look forward to forming-at some future day-those ties which would surround you with domestic

affections

"Ties!-domestic affections! Oh God! Bertha, hush! hush! You know not what you say. Do not present such visions to my bewildered senses. What if I love already, in spite of all the insurmountable obstacles which

He stopped short; the tears trembled under her eyelids, and she waited in almost breathless suspense what more he would say; but he remained silent, and apparently struggling with some strong emotion. For a few moments his eyes were bent on the ground; he raised them slowly, and they fell on her, with a burning, blazing glance, while the veins in his brow seemed swollen, and his cheeks were flushed to the deepest crimson; in another instant he was by her side, had thrown his arm around her waist, and grasped her as it were convulsively. Before, however, she had time even to utter an exclamation, the grasp was relaxed, a deadly pallor had spread over his countenance, and Rudolph hastily rising, rushed rather than walked to the window. He opened the casement, leaned out far, crossed his arms on his heaving chest, and appeared to be endeavouring to overcome his strong excitement.

Bertha meanwhile looked at him anxiously. She thought, but this time she did not speak her thoughts aloud :

"Dear Rudolph, your pride and your affection are engaged in a fierce struggle. You fancy you are too poor to think of me. Ah, would that you had by inheritance the half, or the whole of my fortune, then -then how happy we might be!" She sighed deeply, and at that moment Rudolph turned and walked back with perfect composure to the seat he had so abruptly left.

"My dear countess," he said, "you have hitherto allowed me to speak to you as a friend; permit me still to do so, for believe me I have your best interests much at heart."

"I believe you," she replied, in a low voice.

"You are placed in a somewhat peculiar-nay, in a somewhat dan