It was her usual holiday
dress, and did not embarrass her. Her eyes looked larger, brighter,
and darker than usual, and a faint tinge of rose stole through the
transparent fairness of her cheeks. But, with all, May was no beauty
in the ordinary acceptance of the term. She was one of those rare
mortals who steal into the soul like a pleasant, beneficent idea, and
satisfy its longings with something calmer and holier than mere worldly
friendship; for there was that within May's soul--the hidden mystery of
faith and religion--which, like a lamp in a vase of alabaster, shone
out from her countenance with an influence which none could withstand;
it won--it led--it blessed those who yielded to its power. She
presided at the head of the table that evening with quiet grace, and
attempted once or twice to converse with her uncle, but his looks and
replies were so harsh that she turned to Helen and Mr. Jerrold, and in
a short time found herself amused at his _persiflage_ and Helen's
repartees.
"I have writing to do, Jerrold," said Mr. Stillinghast, after tea; "and
if you will excuse me, I will go up to my room. You can drop in, and
look over those papers before you go. However, stay as late as it is
agreeable for you to do so." Walter Jerrold understood him. Already
captivated by Helen's beauty and worldliness, his decision was made.
Very soon was heard through the silent mansion strains of music, which
startled the echoes in its silent and deserted rooms, accompanied by a
voice of such thrilling sweetness and volume of tone, that the solitary
old man, in his cold and cheerless apartment, threw down his pen, and
sprung to his feet, to listen.
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