With a small
hand-glass she tried the effect of jet and pearls in her ears; of black
velvet, or satin rosettes, in her soft wavy brown hair; of white crape
and illusion on her throat and wrists--glancing all the time with an
expression of pleased triumph at the reflection on her faultlessly
beautiful face.
"Thank God, I am _not_ beautiful," thought May, without a dash of envy.
"I might--yes, I am so weak--I might worship myself instead of God."
But she said nothing, and performed her morning devotions, and made her
meditations as usual; then dressed quickly and neatly, and asked Helen
if she was ready to go down.
"I declare, May, you are a perfect little mouse. I did not know you
were up. Yes; I am ready now. I had quite forgotten that it was my
morning to make breakfast," she replied, returning the things to the
trunk without the least possible hurry.
"If you have any thing else to do, dear Helen; I mean--if--you have not
said your prayers yet, I will go down and get things in train for you,"
said May, timidly.
"Thank you, May, but I keep my own conscience. I have no time for my
prayers now--after breakfast will do," she replied, carelessly.
"Dear Helen, consider--"
"Dear May, I _won't_ consider," she interrupted her, "for I am in such
a ferment of delight, what with the idea of company, and having a harp
once more, I am really half wild, and could not pray for the life of
me--at least, as people _ought_ to pray.
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