“Why?”

“Because, sir, I thought—­you might—­”

“Throw it at your head, or in the fire, eh?  I shall do neither; I shall wear it.  I have not forgot that confounded attack of quinsy I had last winter, nor the doctor’s bill that followed it, and which was worse on me than the choking I got,” said Mr. Stillinghast, while the old, grim look settled on his face again.  He went away, down to his warehouse on the wharf, to grip and wrestle with gain, and barter away the last remnants of his best and holiest instincts, little by little; exchanging hopes of heaven for perishable things, and crushing down the angel conscience, who would have led him safely to eternal life, for the accumulated and unholy burthen of Mammon.

And May, singing cheerily, cleaned, and swept and rubbed, and polished, and touched up things a little here and there, until the room was arranged with exquisite taste and neatness; then took her work-basket, in which lay a variety of little infant’s socks, and fine fleecy under-garments, knit of zephyr worsted, which looked so pure and soft that even she touched them daintily, as she lifted them out to find her needles, and sat down by the fire.  “Now for a nubae,” she said, throwing on stitch after stitch; “ladies who frequent theatres and balls find them indispensable:  this shall be the handsomest one of the season—­worth, at least four dollars.”

CHAPTER III.

THE MORNING ERRAND.

After the slender ivory needles had traversed the fleecy mesh backwards and forwards some three or four times, May suddenly bethought herself of Helen, and laying her work carefully down in her basket, she ran upstairs to see if she was awake.  Turning the knob of the door softly, she entered with a noiseless step, and went towards the bed; but a low, merry laugh, and a “good morning,” assured her that her kind caution had all been needless.

“Dear Helen, how are you to-day?”

“Very well, thank you, little lady, how do you do, and what time is it?”

“Half-past nine.  You need your breakfast, I am sure.  Shall I fetch it to you?”

“Just tell me, first, have you a fire downstairs?”

“A very nice one!”

“And we can’t have one here?”

“Decidedly—­no.”

“Decidedly, then, I shall accompany you downstairs, if that horrid old man is gone.  Oh, I never was so terrified in my life; I thought he’d beat me last night.  Is he gone?”

“Uncle Stillinghast has been gone an hour or more,” replied May, gravely.

“Do tell me, May, does he always jump and snarl so at folk as he did at me?” inquired Helen; seriously.