“Come with me, then?”

“Not to-day; I have an idea of exploring it, and should like, of all things, to get into the very room which Blue Beard keeps locked up.  Is there any possible way of getting in?”

“Yes.”

“How? tell me, quick!”

“Ask Uncle Stillinghast for the key,” said May, while a flash of merriment lit up her eyes.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” said Helen, curtseying: 

“I leave all such exploits to people who are anxious to become martyrs. I have no such ambition.”

CHAPTER VIII.

TROUBLED WATERS.

“Where are you gadding to now?” said Mr. Stillinghast, who had encountered May and Helen at the hall-door, on their way out to church.  “Where are you both going?”

“We are going to mass, sir,” said May, in her usual quiet, pleasant way.

“One of you stay in.  I won’t have the house left so; do you stay, for you are for ever gadding,” he said sharply to May.

“I will remain at home, Uncle Stillinghast,” said Helen, quickly; “do you go, May.”

“Do you go, miss, and let her stay at home; d’ye hear me?” he exclaimed.

“Indeed, sir, I wish to remain at home.  I have no desire at all to go this morning,” expostulated Helen.

“Ar’n’t you a papist?” he inquired, turning suddenly, and confronting her.

“I am a Catholic, sir, but—­but,” she stammered.

“But what?” he asked, sharply.

“I do not care so much about going to church as May does,” she replied, lifting her handsome brown eyes to his angry countenance.

“Oh, Helen!” exclaimed May, with an imploring look.

“This is quite my affair,” said Helen, with a haughty air.

“You’ve got more sense than I gave you credit for,” said Mr. Stillinghast, with a low, peculiar laugh.  “Don’t go any more unless you choose.”

“No, sir.”

“Oh, uncle!” cried May, losing all dread of her uncle’s displeasure, and laying her hand on his arm; “you are tampering with her soul!  Helen!  Helen, you are trampling under foot your birthright in the Church of Christ!”

“Fool!” exclaimed Mr. Stillinghast, shaking her off.  “Be silent.  Go your ways, but dare not interfere with her.”

“I can only pray, sir, for you and for her,” said May, after her first wild and indignant emotions had subsided.

Another low mocking laugh sounded in her ears, then she found herself alone.  “This is dreadful, and hard to bear,” she murmured, as she went out; “but Father Fabian says, that trials are divine and royal gifts!  If I lived only for this life I would never—­I could not bear it, but living for eternity, I cannot afford to lose a single lesson of the rudiments of perfection.”