“Who are you?”

“I?” asked May, looking with a smile of astonishment at her.  “I am your cousin, May Brooke; an orphan like yourself, dear, to whom our uncle has given house and home.”

“Are you happy here?”

“Very happy.  I have things to contend with sometimes which are not altogether agreeable, but I trip along over them just as I do over muddy places in the street, for fear, you know, of soiling my robe, if I floundered in them!” said May, laughing.  Helen did not understand the hidden and beautiful meaning couched under May’s expressions; she had heard but little of her baptismal robe since the days of her early childhood, and had almost forgotten that she was “to carry it unspotted to the judgment-seat of Christ.”

“I am glad you are here—­such a nice, soft-voiced little one,” said Helen, passing her long, white hand over May’s head.

“I am glad, too; so come with me, and take something warm.  Your supper is on the kitchen hearth.  Come,” said May, rising.

“Where—­to the kitchen?  Do you eat in the kitchen?”

“I lunch there sometimes; it is a very nice one.”

“Excuse me; I do not wish any thing.”

“But a cup of hot tea, and some nice toast, after your fatiguing, wet journey,” argued May.

“Nothing, I thank you,” was the haughty reply.

“Perhaps you wish to retire?”

“Yes!  Oh, that I could go to sleep, and never wake again,” she cried, bursting into tears.

“You will feel better to-morrow, dear,” said May, gently, “and then it will soothe you to reflect that each trial has its heavenly mission; and the thorns which pierce us here give birth to flowers in heaven, which angels weave into the crown for which we contend!”

“I am not a saint!” was the curt reply.

“But you are a Catholic?” asked May, chilled by her cold manner.

“Yes,” she replied, languidly, “but I am too ill to talk.”

Refusing all aid, after they got into their chamber, Helen disrobed herself; and while May’s earnest soul was pouring out at the foot of the cross its adoration and homage, she threw herself on her knees, leaned her head on her arm, and yielded to a perfect storm of grief and fury; which, although unacknowledged, raged none the less, while her burning tears, unsanctified by humility, or resignation, embittered the selfish heart which they should have sweetened and refreshed.

CHAPTER II.

May Brooke.

May slept but little that night.  The low sobs and shivering sighs of Helen, disturbed and troubled her, and she longed to go to her, and whisper in her ear all those arguments and hopeful promises which she felt would have consoled her under the same circumstances; but it was a wild, defiant kind of grief, which she thought had better exhaust itself, so she lay quite still until towards dawn, when it