The Blessed Virgin, too, will help him.

It would be sacrilege to doubt her.
I do not doubt.

I do not fear, Sir Karl, but, oh, my friend--" Here she buried her face on my breast and wept convulsively.

Her words, too, had been bolder than her heart--far bolder.
The brooding instinct in me--the faint remnant of mother love, that kind Providence has left in every, good man's heart--longed to comfort her and bear her pains.

But I was powerless to help her, and, after all, her suffering was wholesome.