“I see that I must initiate you, dear Helen, in the mysteries of our domicile,” said May, pleasantly.  “I must be plain with you, and hope you will not feel wounded at my speech.  Our uncle is very eccentric, and says a great many sharp, disagreeable things; and his manners, generally, do not invite affection.  But, on the other hand, I do not think his health is quite sound, and I have heard that in his early life he met with some terrible disappointments, which have doubtless soured him.  He knows nothing of the consolations of religion, or of those divine hopes which would sweeten the bitter fountains of his heart, like the leaves which the prophet threw into Marah’s wave.  His commerce is altogether with and of the world, and he spares no time for superfluous feelings:  but notwithstanding all this there is, I am sure, a warm, bright spot in his heart, or he never would have taken you and me from the cold charities of the world, to shelter and care for us.  Now, dear, you must endeavor to fall in with his humor.”

“And if I should happen to please him?” inquired Helen, sweeping back the golden curls from her forehead and cheeks.

“You will be happy in the consciousness of duties well done,” replied May, looking with her full, earnest eyes, in Helen’s face.  “It is a bad thing, dear, to stir up bitterness and strife in a soul which is not moored in the faith and love of God; as it is a good work to keep it, as far as we can, from giving further offence to heaven by provoking its evil instincts, and inciting it, as it were, to fresh rebellions.  But I am sure, dear Helen, you will endeavor to do right.”

“Yes,” said Helen, slowly, “it will be the best policy; but, May Brooke, I feel as if I am in a panther’s den, or, better still, it’s like Beauty and the Beast, only, instead of an enchanted lover, I have an excessively cross and impracticable old uncle to be amiable to.  Does he give you enough to eat?”

“Have I a starved look?” asked May, laughing.

“No; I confess you look in tolerably good plight.  Do you ever see company?”

“Not often.  My uncle’s habits are those of a recluse.  When he comes home from the bustle of the city, it would be a great annoyance to have company around him:  in fact, I do not care for it, and, I dare say, we shall get on merrily without it.”

“I dare say I shall die.  Have you a piano here?”

May laughed outright, and answered in the negative.

“Well, how in the name of wonder do you manage to get on?” asked Helen, folding her hands together, and looking puzzled.

“Just as you will have to, by and by,” she replied; “but come, pin your collar on, and come down to breakfast.”

“I must say my prayers first,” said Helen, dropping down suddenly on her knees, and carelessly blessing herself, while she hurried over some short devotion, crossed herself, and got up, saying:—­