was alone, but said Lelio would not be long; so Judith waited all the more willingly as it struck her that the mother could, most likely, answer her questions as well as the son.

"Signora," she began, “I know from your son that you are a good woman and a good mother. I cannot take my troubles to my mother; and so God has led me to you. I am a Jewess, and I am going to be a Christian."

Now Signora Pasqualina had received Judith rather coldly; she did not know what to make of this beautiful distinguished-looking lady, who came in so unceremoniously and asked for Lelio. But no sooner had Judith done speaking than she lifted her eyes and hands to heaven, exclaiming, "O, what a grace, what a grace!" and tears came into her eyes.

"Are you so glad about it?" Judith asked, surprised and touched. "I am quite a stranger to you."

"O, what does that matter?" cried Pasqualina. “A soul is about to be saved; the Blood of Jesus will be honoured; His sweet Name glorified, His Kingdom spread; His Will done in earth as in Heaven by this saved soul! How can I help being full of joy at such blessed news? O, my dear lady, you would not wonder at that if you knew what treasures of grace will be yours, and what love unites all those who share in them."

"And who are they?"

"All who belong to the Holy Church."

"I am so ignorant still," said Judith humbly, "that you must forgive me for asking you another question: what is the Church?"

"It is the body of all Christians every where," answered Pasqualina, "who hold the same faith, and partake of the same sacraments, under the same head-the Pope, who is St. Peter's successor."

"And who," Judith went on, "founded and regulated this Church?"

"The Son of God, our Lord Jesus Christ, who desires the eternal good and happiness of all men, and who gave it His doctrine and His means of grace, promising that the Holy Spirit should never forsake it."

"And, signora, what should you say if I turned, not to the Church, but to one of the sects who deny the authority of the Pope?"

"If you did so, knowing nothing of the Church, I should say, with much sorrow, that through no fault of yours you had missed the knowledge of divine truth: but if you did it knowingly, I could only say that you had wilfully cut yourself off from God's grace now, and from His glory hereafter. But such a misfortune could not happen to any one whose will is good. All that is wanted is a pure intention; eyes to see, and ears to hear: those who seek will find; our Lord has promised it. And the Church is not something that one can pass by without seeing; it is always plain and easy to be seen, always the same every where. And, signora, when you are baptised, you will be born again,-born to everlasting life; a daughter of the Church, a child of God, and an heir of His glorious kingdom.

Would any honest, reasonable soul forfeit a treasure like this?
only the Church has it to bestow."

And

"Lelio might well say that his mother was a wise and good and pious woman."

"Only God knows whether I am good and pious," Pasqualina answered; "if I am, I pray Him to keep me so. am not wise, signora. All my learning is in the Dottrina Cristiana, But I am sure I and in the contemplation of my Saviour's Passion and death; the first strengthens my faith, and the last my love. Now you know every body can have that learning.'

"Every one who desires it," added Judith. "One more question, dear signora: if I become a Catholic, can I marry a Protestant?"

"Such things are never done here, thank God! It must be a terrible thing. They who know this divinest of mysteries have an unutterable pity for those who are strangers to it; but they cannot choose the companion of their life from among those who do not possess the Eternal Truth; and without that Truth what do they possess, or know, or love?"

"Nothing," Judith answered.

"Then you will give up all idea of marrying a Protestant? Promise me that, dear signora," and Pasqualina took Judith's hand earnestly. 66 No, do not promise me; promise our Blessed Lady. O signora, what a grace you enjoy in being a daughter of the same race as Mary, the Blessed among women,' the 'Lily among thorns'! Of the same race too as Magdalen, who knelt at the feet of Jesus a sinner, and rose up a saint,-justified by her penitence and her love. O, how they will plead for you at the throne of God!"

Pasqualina went on thus, more and more earnestly, more and more tenderly, and she ended with a burst of tears. Her look was so loving, so motherly, as it rested on Judith, that she was quite overcome by it; and, throwing her arms round Pasqualina's neck, she said softly, “Ah, what a rest it is to be with you!"

"It must be because I went to Communion this morning," was the simple humble answer.

"And now I must go," said Judith; "but I have a favour to ask. Give me the book which teaches you such heavenly wisdom." "The Dottrina? with all my heart;" and she took it from the drawer of her table.

Judith opened it, and read the first question and answer, "Why did God make you? To know Him, love Him, and serve Him in this world; and to be happy with Him for ever in the next." Then she shut the book, saying, "Every thing is said in those words, -truth, love, happiness. One more request; to send his friend, the young priest, to me?"

will

you ask

your son

"You mean the Abbate, Don Cintio?"
"I do not know his name; he is tall, fair, and slight."

"Yes, yes; with the look of an angel, and a foreign accent.
You must mean Don Cintio; and to whom shall I
signora ?"

"To Judith: your son will understand. And

say he must go,

you must

pray

for

me.' She embraced Pasqualina, and hastened to Sta. Maria della Pace, not to admire Raffaelle's Sibyls, but to think over what she had heard, and what she had to do. What she had heard was clear and plain and beautiful; it flowed through her thirsty soul like a warm spring shower on a dry soil, like a soft spring breeze round a leafless tree. And the first thing she had to do was also plain and clear,―to be baptised in the Blood of Jesus. And then?-she shuddered as she asked the question; not because a sacrifice had to be made, indeed it hardly seemed now worthy of the name,-but because she did not know how to break with Orest. She had drawn him on to the brink of the precipice, and now that he was about to take the fatal leap, she had to cry, "Stop! all is at an end between us." How would he take it, now that he had every thing at stake, like the gambler who has risked his all on the next throw? "Well," she said to herself, "if he should kill me, I cannot marry him. O, only let me be baptised, only let me become a child of God and an heir of Heaven, then my soul will be saved; and then, if Orest takes my life, as I have deserved, I shall be washed in the Precious Blood, and safe for all eternity. What was the prayer of that great penitent, Thais? 'O Thou who hast created me, have mercy on me!'" She burst into tears, and she said again and again, "Have mercy on me!” She was on her knees before the Blessed Sacrament; she stretched her arms towards the Tabernacle, saying through her tears, "O, if Thou art the God of everlasting truth and love, have mercy on me, and let me find Thee, for I am pining for truth and love; and they are only to be found with Thee."

No one disturbed or noticed her. The warm-hearted Italians know that devotion, like every other strong emotion, has its own expression, its own language. A young priest, saying office before the altar, drew back quietly. In spite of her dress he thought he recognised Judith. He knelt down before our Lady's altar, whispering in joyful hope, "If it is she, she is saved. Blessed Mary, Queen of peace, pray that this poor troubled soul may find peace."

When Judith returned, her maid met her in some excitement, saying, "The Count was in despair at her absence: he had been all through the Villa Borghese-had sought for her every where."

"There was no occasion for any anxiety," answered Judith quietly. "Are there any messages or letters for me?"

The maid gave her a letter, which, she said, a little girl had left, who would call presently for an answer.

Judith opened it carelessly. It was written in French, in a delicate woman's hand, and without signature. It ran as follows:

"SIGNORA,-As you are about to receive in the Sacrament of Baptism the greatest happiness that can fall to the lot of any one, I am sure you will feel more deeply than usual for a person in trouble. My circumstances prevent my calling on you, and yet I most earnestly wish to speak with you. The strangeness of my request will show you more clearly than any words could do how much importance I attach to an interview with you. Will you, therefore, be so kind, signora, as to appoint a day and hour when I may meet you at the

Convent of the Trinità de' Monti? If you give your name at the door, you will be admitted. I only ask you to write two words of consent; but, signora, I ask in the Name of Jesus, who is about to bring you, by His Precious Blood, to the fulness of grace in His Holy Church."

She read the letter three times, without being able even to conjecture who the writer could be. Then she sat down and wrote: "J. M. will be at the appointed place at seven o'clock to-morrow morning."

CHAPTER XXIX.

WHY ARE THERE TIDES IN THE ADRIATIC?

JUDITH had scarcely written her note before Orest's hasty steps were heard in the salon. She went to him, gave him her hand, and said kindly, "I do not think I shall thank you for your anxiety; you look quite upset."

He did, indeed, look so pale and agitated, that she could hardly suppress her nervousness.

"Do

"Where have you been? what did you suppose had happened?" she asked, as he held her hands in both his without speaking. tell me what has put you in this state of excitement.'

"Can you ask? The whole morning passed, and you did not return. I have been to the Villa Borghese, the Villa Pamfili,-I know how fond you are of walking under the pines there, and then, when I could not find you, all sorts of horrors came into my mind: that I had lost you that you were carried away from me."

"Dear Orest, do be reasonable! People are not carried off in that way in our day."

"I cannot be reasonable, as you call it, when such a thought as losing you occurs to me. O Judith, I am in despair; every thing is against us: even if I became a Protestant here, I should have to go to Germany to manage the separation. And think of the delay! O, let us go-to the East-any where!"

"God will not let us," she said, interrupting him; but she, usually so courageous, trembled before Orest.

"Cold-hearted!" he cried, reproachfully.

“One can only love as much as one is able," she said.

Very well, let it be so; only do it as much as you are able," he exclaimed passionately.

"O, my real love for you is only just beginning!" she said, so earnestly that Orest mistook her meaning, and cried triumphantly, "Then my happiness is certain!"

"I wanted to tell you," said Judith, anxious to turn the conversation, "that I have been speaking to a priest about my baptism. Now that my engagements for the Opera here are over, it is time for me to become better acquainted with the faith I am going to embrace."

"Do not go too deep," said Orest. "The essence of all religion

is-God is Love.

One has just to keep firm hold of that, and to reject every thing that contradicts it."

"That is true," Judith answered earnestly; "that is how I too understand true religion."

"And, dear Judith, do not go into dogmatic definitions and scholastic distinctions, which only confuse the mind and perplex the conscience. God is Love!-that will carry one through the world." "But whither?" she asked musingly. Her thoughts had gone far beyond this world.

"Whither?" cried Orest, misunderstanding her; "to the end we are striving for-to our hearts' desire, to happiness !"

'That is a great thing to attain," she said: "happiness !"

So they talked-each from a different standing-point; and neither understood the other: there was a gulf between them.

Among others in Judith's salon that evening was the Marquis d'Avallon, the young Frenchman whom the reader may remember at the Villa Diodati.

Fancy our meeting in Rome after the Carnival!" said Judith. "What have you been doing with yourself all this time?"

"About the last thing I have been doing, signora, was to study Roman architectural remains in the south of France, by way of comparing them with those here; and do you know, that I fell in with a person who interested me more than all the ruins in the world?"

Judith laughed: "The Pont du Gard made Rousseau forget the lady of his heart; let us hear what made the Marquis d'Avallon forget the Pont du Gard."

"A discalced Carmelite monk, signora."

Every one laughed.

"I should think such a thing was without example in the history of mankind," said Madame Miranes.

"Now if it had been a Carmelite nun!" Orest cried.

"But, you see, it was not," the Marquis went on. "And have you really never heard of Father A.?" He went on to tell her of the conversion of a celebrated young musician, who had become a Carmelite friar, and with whom he had himself been intensely struck on hearing him preach at Bordeaux.

"What supernatural fortitude and love," said he, "must be in a soul that turns from a brilliant exciting life in the world to the habit and cell of a Carmelite monk !”

"What must God be-to the souls that love Him!" said Judith. "Yes, that is the true explanation!" exclaimed the Marquis, surprised. "Signora, you understand it like a thorough Catholic."

"There are always exceptional persons in the world, who find their happiness where other people would find misery," said Orest. "There is an instance in my family: a cousin of mine,-such a charming, beautiful girl,-who buried herself at two-and-twenty in a Carmelite convent. It is inexplicable."

"On mathematical principles, or by the evidence of the five senses, it is certainly inexplicable," said the Marquis.