And so there was a dead silence, except when the rain and sleet lashed the window-panes, or a lump of coal crumbled into a thousand glowing fragments, and opened a glowing abyss in the grate; or the cat uncurled herself on the rug, and purred, while she fixed her great winking eyes on the blaze.  The two persons who occupied the room were an old man and a young maiden.  He was stern, and sour-looking, as he sat in his high-back leather chair, with a pile of ledgers on the table before him,—­the pages of which he examined with the most incomparable patience.  A snuff-colored wig sat awry on his head, and a snuff-colored coat, ornamented with large horn buttons, drooped ungracefully from his high, stooping shoulders.  His neckcloth was white, but twisted, soiled, and tied carelessly around his thin, sinewy throat.  His legs were cased in gray lamb’s-wool stockings, over which his small-clothes were fastened at the knees with small silver buckles.  His face was not originally cast in such a repulsive mould, but commerce with the world, and a succession of stinging disappointments in his early manhood, had woven an ugly mask over it, from behind which glimpses of his former self, on rare occasions, shone out.  Such was Mark Stillinghast at the opening of our story:  old, cynical, and rich, but poor in friendship, and without any definite ideas of religion, except, that if such a thing really existed, it was a terra incognita, towards which men rather stumbled than ran.

Opposite to him, on a low crimson chair, as antique in its pattern as the owner of the mansion, sat a maiden, who might have passed her seventeenth summer.  She was not beautiful, and yet her face had a peculiar charm, which appealed directly to the softer and kindlier emotions of the heart.  Her eyes, large, gray and beautifully fringed with long, black lashes, reminded one of calm mountain lakes, into whose very depths the light of sun and stars shine down, until they beam with tender sweetness, and inward repose.  There was a glad, happy look in her face, which came not from the fitful, feverish glow of earth, but, like rays from an inner sanctuary, the glorious realities of faith, hope, and love, which possessed her soul, diffused their mysterious influence over her countenance.  Thick braids of soft, brown hair, were braided over her round, childlike forehead:  and her dress of some dark, rich color, was in admirable harmony with her peculiar style.  Her proportions were small and symmetrical, and it was wonderful to see the serious look of dignity with which she sat in that old crimson chair, knitting away on a comfort, as fast as her little white fingers could shuffle the needles.  For what purpose could such a fragile small creature have been created?  She looked as if it would not be amiss to put her under a glass-case, or exhibit her as a specimen of wax-work; or hire her out, at so much per night, to fashionable parties, to play “fairy” in the Tableaux.  But the wind howled; the leafless branches of the old trees without were crushed up, shivering and creaking against the house; the frozen snow beat a wild reville on the windows, and May’s face grew very sad and thoughtful.  She dropped her knitting, and with lips apart listened intently.