back; his old, withered cheek, grew pallid, and he turned away and fled—­but they pursued him.  “Profit—­gain—­loss.  Profit—­gain—­loss.  Profit—­gain—­loss.  I understand them!” he gasped. “I have heaped up gains; of earthly profit I have my share; and now, at the eleventh hour, it is summed up, and what is it—­yes, what is it?  IT IS LOSS.  For all that is mortal, I have toiled my best hours away; for all that is immortal, not one hour have I spared.  It is loss—­loss—­eternal loss.”  And so he went on muttering—­back to his den in the city, where the leaden waves of business again came surging, breast high, around him; but through the dull, heavy sounds, the warning still rung, like distant knells, through his soul.

On his homeward way that night, the farther he receded from the noise of the city, the more it distinctly sounded, with its requiem wail, through the dreary chambers of his heart; and, somehow, he suddenly remembered, as he paused to rest, that it was on this very spot that he had seen Father Fabian administering the last rites of the church to a dying penitent; and he trembled, and hurried on, until he came to his own door.  May was sitting up alone for him; and when she opened the door, and the rays from the hall lamp fell on his features, she saw that he looked ill and weary.

“Let me assist you, dear uncle,” said May, taking his hat and returning to help him draw off his coat.  “I fear you are not well.”

“It is very cold,” he replied, shivering, and yielding to her wishes.

“You will soon feel better, sir; see what a nice fire here is—­and I have a piping-hot cup of tea and hot muffins for your supper.”

“May Brooke,” said the strange old man, while he laid his cold, heavy hand on her shoulder, “stop; answer the questions I shall ask you, truly and honestly.”

“I will endeavor to do so, sir,” replied May, lifting her clear, bright eyes to his.

“You can, and must.  What object have you in providing for that old negro woman, on the outskirts of the city?”

“I pity her, sir, because she is poor and helpless, and do it, I hope, for the love of God,” she said, amazed, but quiet.

“Very well.  And now, for the love of God, answer this,” he said, with anxiety; “tell me how, you provide for her—­how you get means to buy wood and necessaries?”

“Dear uncle, I am sorry you have found it out.  I do not like to speak of it—­indeed, I would prefer not—­it seems—­so—­yes—­it seems like boasting, or talking too much about myself,” said May, while her cheeks flushed crimson.

“Go on; I will know!” he said, harshly.

“Yes, sir.  I earn a trifle every two or three weeks by knitting fancy articles, which Mrs. Tabb on C——­ Street, disposes of for me—­”

“And then—­”

“And then, sir, I take care of old Mabel with the proceeds; but please, dear, dear uncle, do not forbid me to continue doing so; pray allow me the privilege of earning a trifle for her benefit while she lives; and then, sir, never—­never speak of it to me or any one else, after this,” she implored.