rofound gloom in the house, an unnatural
order. Nobody dared to derange the papers or books upon the tables, to
move the chairs, or to touch any thing. If May appeared in a new dress
he frowned, and his wife trembled every time she put in a breast-pin.

Only in her own room was May mistress of every thing. If any body had
looked into it he would have seen only the traces of a careful and
elegant hand, and often enough he would have seen a delicate girl-face,
almost too thoughtful for so young a face, resting upon the hand, as if
May Newt were troubled and perplexed by the gloom of the house and the
silence of the household. Her window opened over the street, and there
were a few horse-chestnut trees before the house. She made friends with
them, and they covered themselves with blossoms for her pleasure. She
sat for hours at her window, looking into the trees, sewing, reading,
musing--solitary as a fairy princess in a tower.

Sometimes flowers came, with Uncle Lawrence's love. Or fine fruit for
Miss May Newt, with the same message. Several times from her window May
had seen who the messenger was: a young man with candid eyes, with a
quick step, and an open, almost boyish face. When the street was still
she heard him half-singing as he bounded along--as nobody sings, she
thought, whose home is not happy.

Solitary as a fairy princess in a tower, she looked down upon the figure
as it rapidly disappeared. The sewing or the reading stopped entirely;
nor were they resumed when he had passed out of sight. May Newt thought
it strange that Uncle Lawrence should send such a messenger in the middle
of the day. He did not look like a porter. He was not an office boy. He
was evidently one of the upper-clerks. It was certainly very kind in
Uncle Lawrence.

So thought the solitary Princess in the tower, her mind wandering from
the romance she was reading to a busy speculation upon the reality in the
street beneath her.

The blind was thrown partly back as she sat at the open window. A simple
airy dress, made by her own hands, covered her flower-like figure. The
brown hair was smoothed over the white temples, and the sweet girl eyes
looked kindly into the street from which the figure of the young man had
just passed. If by chance the eyes of that young man had been turned
upward, would he not have thought--since one Sunday morning, when he
passed her on the way to church, he was sure that she looked like an
angel going home--would