When May had proposed to Mrs. Tabb to live, or, rather, lodge with her, nothing of its kind could exceed the enthusiastic reception she met.  She poured out a torrent of exclamations and superlatives, which set all the rules of grammar at defiance.  Then she broke out in the vociferous indignation at “the old miser’s meanness,” and last, and more outrageous than all, were her reflections on “upstartish misses, who drop from the clouds when no one expects them, and get all and every thing that them ought to had, who had been waiting, and bearing with people’s meanness and ill-humor from their cradels up.”  And if, at that moment, she had not tilted her snuff-box, which was filled with Scotch snuff, over, under May’s nose, whereupon both were seized with a paroxysm of sneezing, which was an effectual interruption to her tirade, she would have been silenced by a few charitable explanations.

When May returned home, she found Mr. Jerrold waiting in the parlor.  He offered his hand; and there was such an air of sincerity in his manner, that it dispelled all May’s reserve.

“I have brought Helen’s love,” he said, while he uncovered a magnificent bouquet, “and these roses and violets.  They are the first of the season.”

“These are very, very beautiful and fragrant, and I thank you most heartily for them.  How is Helen?”

“She is looking well, but she falls occasionally into fits of despondency, which is either the result of much fatigue and excitement, or some cause which she does not wish to explain.  I wish you would come and live with us.  Helen needs a sister,” said the young man.

“Dear Mr. Jerrold,” said old-fashioned May, “I have tried to find my way to Helen’s heart, but, to be frank with you, our ways lie too differently.  Helen will have none of my friendship on those terms on which I alone can give it.  But you do not understand it all.—­You are a Protestant, and wish to see Helen one; therefore, I should be a discord in your house, because, if there, my duty would not allow me to hold my peace.”

“Helen is too young and beautiful to mope about religion,” he said, carelessly.  “When she gets older, and is more tied down by domestic cares, it will be necessary and respectable for her to be religious; and then, egad, if she wishes it, I’d as lief she’d be a Catholic as any thing else.”

“Helen will be ill-prepared, I fear, for a life of pious example, if she devotes all of her energies now to the world. Grace, you know, sir, is not a human thing which can be bought with money, or worldly eloquence,” replied May, earnestly.

“Helen has no truer friend, I believe, on my honor, May, than yourself; but, really, she must enjoy life a little longer; then I will turn her over to you and her father confessor;—­but I came for a purpose, to-day.”

“A friendly one, I am sure!” said May.

“Yes.  I saw Mr. Fielding this morning, and consulted him about the expediency of your remaining here, as you wont live with us.  We wish the place kept up;—­it is a curioso in its way—­an antique with all its appurtenances; and I do not know any one more in keeping with it, than cousin May.”