y her head with a
quivering lip.

"How unfortunate! But, May, have you any fine table linen?"

"Yes; a number of fine damask tablecloths."

"And napkins?"

"None."

"Thank fortune, I have some four dozen East India napkins; they will
look quite splendid on the table this evening. But hurry on, May, I
wish to clear up to make room for my harp; I expect it every moment."

That evening, if Mr. Stillinghast had looked around him, he would
scarcely have recognized the sitting-room as the one he had left in the
morning. The round table, just large enough to seat four comfortably,
was elegantly spread with fine white damask, and crimson and old gold
china, of an antique and elegant pattern; sparkling cut glass, and
silver. Two wax candles burned in the old-fashioned silver
_candelabras_ in the centre, on each side of which stood two clusters
of geranium leaves and winter roses, arranged in small rich vases. The
grate looked resplendent, and a harp, of a magnificent pattern, heavily
carved and gilded, stood in a conspicuous place. Helen looked
exquisitely lovely. Her dress was the perfection of good taste, and
well did its elaborate simplicity suit her style of beauty. A single
white rose, and a few geranium leaves in her hair, with a pearl and jet
brooch, which fastened the velvet around her throat, were the only
ornaments she wore. But Mr. Stillinghast came in growling and lowering
as usual, and without noticing any one, or any thing, threw himself in
his arm-chair, which May had taken care should be in its place; drew
off his boots, and replaced them with the soft warm slippers she had
worked for him some months before; then called for the evening paper,
and was soon immersed in the news from Europe, and the rise and fall of
stocks. About a quarter of an hour afterwards the front door-bell
rung, and May, who happened to be in the hall, went to admit the
visitor, who was no other than Mr. Jerrold. He bowed courteously, and
"presumed he had the pleasure of speaking to Miss Stillinghast?"

"My name is May Brooke," said May, with one of her clear smiles.

"And mine is Jerrold--Walter Jerrold; not so harmonious as yours,
certainly!" he replied, throwing off the large Spanish cloak which was
folded gracefully around him.

"Life would be a sad monotone if every thing in creation resembled each
other; there would be no harmony. But walk in, Mr. Jerrold, my uncle
expects you," said May, throwing open the door.