“Coffee to grind, and rolls to bake, for that horrid old man—­”

“And ourselves.  I tell you what, Helen, he could get on vastly well without us, but how we should manage without him I cannot tell,” said May, gravely, for when occasion offered, she could so inflate and expand her little form with dignity, and throw such a truthful penetrating light into her splendid eyes, that it was quite terrifying.

“Go on, then; I shall follow you in a few moments.  I have some prayers to say.”  Helen’s prayers were soon over.  Religion was no vital principle in her mind.  It is true she held the germs of faith in her soul, but they were like those bulbs and grains which are so often found on the breast of mummies—­which, unless exhumed, and exposed to sunlight and air, never develop their latent life.  So with her; swathed, and wrapped, and crusted over with evil associations, artificial feelings, and the maxims of the world, the germ was hidden—­buried—­until the angel of repentance should reveal to her the pearl she held, and lead her beyond the vestibule of faith.  She had looked no farther; poor Helen; to the splendors, the consolations, and rapture beyond, she was a stranger.  It is not remarkable, then, that when she encountered the stern changes and trials of life, the burden galled and fretted her.

“How are you, ma’am; you are very welcome!” laughed May, when Helen came down; “come near the fire, and while you warm yourself, take this coffee-mill on your knees—­turn the handle so, until all the grains disappear, then begin the second stage.”

“The what?” asked Helen, tugging at the handle, which she turned with difficulty.  Her hands, unaccustomed to work of any kind, held it awkwardly; while May, with her hands in the dough, which she worked vigorously, laughed outright at her fruitless efforts.

“It’s no use, May,” at last she broke out, “I can’t do it; and I’ve a mind to throw the thing out of the window and run away.”

“Where, dear Helen?”

“I don’t know.  I will hire out as lady’s-maid, companion, governess—­any thing is preferable to this sort of life!” she exclaimed, flushing up.

“You would find greater difficulties than a harmless coffee-mill to contend with, I imagine!” said May, quietly, while she shaped her rolls, and placed them in a pan.

“What shall I do?” cried Helen, in a tone of despair, after another fruitless effort.

“Grind the coffee.  Come, you are quite strong enough; put it on the table, here—­steady it with one hand, and turn with the other—­so; now it goes,” said May, pleasantly.

“How ridiculous! what now?” said Helen, laughing.

“The second stage!” replied May, looking mysterious; “pull out that little drawer, and empty the powder you will find in it into the coffee-pot, which I have just scalded—­that is it; now pour on a little cold water; put in this fish-sound; fill up with boiling water—­there, that is enough.  Now comes the third, and last stage.  Set the pot on the stove, and watch it; when it boils up the third time, throw in a small cup full of cold water, and take it off to settle.  It is ready then for immediate use.”