a plan that well suited his
present mood. "If she plots," he muttered, rubbing his dry, yellow hands
together, with grim delight, "I will _counter_-plot. It is not the
wrong, _but the person who inflicts it_, that stings me. But the
_serpent's tooth_ has been gnawing these many years at my heart--why
complain now?"

But several days passed, and he had obtained no clue to the mystery,
which increased his anxiety, and made him more fretful and testy than
usual. He allowed no opportunity to escape, to make May feel his
displeasure. Bitter and contemptuous speeches, coarse allusions to her
religion, fault-finding with all she did, and sudden outbursts of
unprovoked fury, were now the daily trials of her life. Trials which
were sore temptations, and full of humiliation to a proud, high spirit,
like May's; and sharp were the struggles, and earnest the prayers, and
many the scalding tears she shed, ere she subdued the storm of wild and
indignant resentment, which swept like whirlwinds through her soul. But
her talisman--the Cross of Jesus Christ--was her safeguard. Its
splinters inflicted many a sharp wound; but none so sharp, that the balm
it distilled could not heal and beautify them.

Helen, in a fright, kept as much as possible out of sight. Towards her,
Mr. Stillinghast's manner was inconsistent, and variable in the extreme.
At one time almost kind, at another, captious and surly. Sometimes he
called on her for every thing, and perhaps the next moment threatened to
throw whatever he had ordered, at her head. Once he told her, in bitter
tones and language, that "but for wishing to make use of her to effect
certain ends, he would turn her into the street." He had a new lock and
key, of a peculiar construction, fitted on his chamber door, which he
locked every morning carefully, and carried the key away with him.

"This is awful, May. _How_ can you bear it as you do, for you do not
seem the least afraid of him?" said Helen, one morning.

"I am afraid of offending our Lord by spitefulness, and returning
injuries to one who is my benefactor," replied May.

"You _do_ feel spiteful, then, sometimes? Really, it is quite refreshing
to know that you are not perfect," said Helen, in her sneering way.

"Yes I _feel_ so very often. I am full of imperfections. I am _not_
patient, or humble, or even forgiving. I am only _outwardly_--outwardly
calm and silent, because I do not think it right to fan up resentments,