suit her style of beauty.  A single white rose, and a few geranium leaves in her hair, with a pearl and jet brooch, which fastened the velvet around her throat, were the only ornaments she wore.  But Mr. Stillinghast came in growling and lowering as usual, and without noticing any one, or any thing, threw himself in his arm-chair, which May had taken care should be in its place; drew off his boots, and replaced them with the soft warm slippers she had worked for him some months before; then called for the evening paper, and was soon immersed in the news from Europe, and the rise and fall of stocks.  About a quarter of an hour afterwards the front door-bell rung, and May, who happened to be in the hall, went to admit the visitor, who was no other than Mr. Jerrold.  He bowed courteously, and “presumed he had the pleasure of speaking to Miss Stillinghast?”

“My name is May Brooke,” said May, with one of her clear smiles.

“And mine is Jerrold—­Walter Jerrold; not so harmonious as yours, certainly!” he replied, throwing off the large Spanish cloak which was folded gracefully around him.

“Life would be a sad monotone if every thing in creation resembled each other; there would be no harmony.  But walk in, Mr. Jerrold, my uncle expects you,” said May, throwing open the door.

“How are you, sir?” said Mr. Stillinghast, turning his head, but not rising.  “My niece, Helen Stillinghast.  Take a chair.”  He did not introduce May, or notice her, except by a frown.  Feeling the tears rush to her eyes at this new mark of her uncle’s displeasure, she flitted back to the kitchen, and commenced operations with her waffle irons.  While engaged with her domestic preparations, she heard the gay, manly voice of Mr. Jerrold, in an animated conversation with Helen, who now, in her right element, laughed and talked incessantly.  Again welled up the bitter fountain in her heart, but that talismanic word dispersed it, and it was gone, like spray melting on the sunny shores of the sea.  When she placed the supper on the table, she moved around with such calm self-possession—­such an airy, light motion of modest grace, that Walter Jerrold, who had seen much of the world, and lived in the best company, was struck by the anomaly which combined so much real grace with what, he considered, domestic drudgery.  And May’s appearance justified his remarks.  A dark, rich merino dress; a small, finely embroidered collar, with cuffs of the same; a breast-knot of crimson and black ribbon; and her waving, glossy hair, falling in broad bands on her fair cheeks, and gathered up at the back of her head, beneath a jet comb, completed her attire.  It was her usual holiday dress, and did not embarrass her.  Her eyes looked larger, brighter, and darker than usual, and a faint tinge of rose stole through the transparent fairness of her cheeks.  But, with all, May was no beauty in the ordinary acceptance of the term.  She was one of those rare mortals