she lay an image of heavenly repose.  May felt that it was a type of the brightness which would soon crown her; and while a flood of warm and joyful rapture flowed into her soul, she exulted in the thought that she, too, was a member of the household of faith.  It was a profitable time to May; for death was suddenly stripped of its thrilling horrors; its gaunt outlines were softened and brightened, and she thought of him as a tireless and faithful guide, who led souls beyond the dark tide, over the lonely and shadowy ways, and through the fathomless abyss, to the very portals of eternal rest.  She had almost forgotten the object which brought her out that morning, so absorbed was she in the contemplation of the scene she had witnessed; until on rising to leave the church after the divine rites were over, her bundle fell to her feet.  She snatched it up, ashamed of her carelessness, and, slipping through the crowd, emerged once more into the street.  Picking her way through snow and ice, she came to a neat fancy store, and went in.  Behind the counter stood a neat, pleasant old lady assorting worsteds, who smiled a welcome the moment she saw who it was who had entered.

“Ah, my dear Miss May how do you do? come near the stove and sit down.  It is not yet our busy time of day, and we can have a nice chat.”

“You will please excuse me now, dear Mrs. Tabb, I have been away much longer from home than I expected, and must hurry off, as I have another errand to do.  I have brought more of those little zephyr worsted shirts, four pair of socks, and two or three mats—­lamp mats,” said May, unfolding her bundle.

“Bless me, dear child! you are making a fortune.  I have sold all that you left with me two weeks ago; and after deducting my commission, here is a half eagle for you.”

“All sold!” exclaimed May, joyfully.

“Every one, and more ordered.  The way was this.  Two fine ladies, who both have infants, came in one day, and both wanted the things; but both couldn’t have them, and neither would purchase a part; so at last one offered two dollars more than the other, and got them,” said Mrs. Tabb, deliberately taking a pinch of snuff.

“Oh, Mrs. Tabb! dear me, it was more than they were worth.”

“Not to her, my child.  She would have given ten dollars rather than not get them; and she’s so rich she don’t know what to do with her money.  So these will just do for Mrs. Osmond, who, I expect, will call this very day for them.

“I do not feel quite satisfied,” said May; “but as it was all voluntary on her part, I suppose there’s nothing very wrong in it.”

“Bless you—­no.  She paid the value of the things, then paid for her pride and ostentation, which is the way with all worldly people, and which, thank God, I am not responsible for.”

“Thank you, dear Mrs. Tabb; you are very kind to take so much trouble for me.  I must run away now.  I shall knit up all my worsted this week, so please have another package ready for me when I come again.  Good by.”