"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.
"How are you, sir?" said Mr. Stillinghast, turning his head, but not
rising. "My niece, Helen Stillinghast. Take a chair." He did not
introduce May, or notice her, except by a frown. Feeling the tears
rush to her eyes at this new mark of her uncle's displeasure, she
flitted back to the kitchen, and commenced operations with her waffle
irons. While engaged with her domestic preparations, she heard the
gay, manly voice of Mr. Jerrold, in an animated conversation with
Helen, who now, in her right element, laughed and talked incessantly.
Again welled up the bitter fountain in her heart, but that talismanic
word dispersed it, and it was gone, like spray melting on the sunny
shores of the sea. When she placed the supper on the table, she moved
around with such calm self-possession--such an airy, light motion of
modest grace, that Walter Jerrold, who had seen much of the world, and
lived in the best company, was struck by the anomaly which combined so
much real grace with what, he considered, domestic drudgery. And May's
appearance justified his remarks. A dark, rich merino dress; a small,
finely embroidered collar, with cuffs of the same; a breast-knot of
crimson and black ribbon; and her waving, glossy hair, falling in broad
bands on her fair cheeks, and gathered up at the back of her head,
beneath a jet comb, completed her attire.
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