Helen, in a fright, kept as much as possible out of sight.  Towards her, Mr. Stillinghast’s manner was inconsistent, and variable in the extreme.  At one time almost kind, at another, captious and surly.  Sometimes he called on her for every thing, and perhaps the next moment threatened to throw whatever he had ordered, at her head.  Once he told her, in bitter tones and language, that “but for wishing to make use of her to effect certain ends, he would turn her into the street.”  He had a new lock and key, of a peculiar construction, fitted on his chamber door, which he locked every morning carefully, and carried the key away with him.

“This is awful, May. How can you bear it as you do, for you do not seem the least afraid of him?” said Helen, one morning.

“I am afraid of offending our Lord by spitefulness, and returning injuries to one who is my benefactor,” replied May.

“You do feel spiteful, then, sometimes?  Really, it is quite refreshing to know that you are not perfect,” said Helen, in her sneering way.

“Yes I feel so very often.  I am full of imperfections.  I am not patient, or humble, or even forgiving.  I am only outwardly—­outwardly calm and silent, because I do not think it right to fan up resentments, and malice, and bitterness, all so antagonistic to the love of God.  I hope! oh, I hope my motive is, singly and purely to avoid offending Him,” said May, humbly and earnestly.

“I heartily wish the old wretch would die!” exclaimed Helen.

“Oh, Helen! so unprovided as he is for another world!  Unsay that, won’t you?” cried May, clasping her hands together.

“No, May; I mean it.  I think he is as much fit to die now as he ever will be.  He has doubtless spent his life in tormenting others, and it will only be fair when he is tormented in his turn.  But, spare those looks of horror, and tell me, who do you think passed by here this morning, and looked in, and bowed?”

“I cannot tell,” said May, sadly.

“That handsome Jerrold.  I hope he may prove a knight-errant, and deliver me from Giant Despair’s castle,” said the frivolous girl, while she twisted her long, shining curls around her fingers.

“Take care, Helen.  Romance does very well in books, but it is a mischievous thing to mix up in the real concerns of life.”

“My dearest May, I shall never want a skull to grin ghastly lessons of morality at me, while I have you,” replied Helen, with a scornful laugh.

“Pardon me, Helen; I fear that I do say too much; but let my good intention be my excuse,” said May.

“Yes, it is intolerable.  My old Tartar of an uncle swearing and scolding down stairs, and you preaching and praying, up.  It is more than human nature can bear.—­Where are you going?”

“To confession,” replied May, in a low tone.

“Very well; but, my dear ‘wee wee woman,’ don’t stay long, for I believe this rambling, musty old house is haunted.”