“Thank God!  They are come.  I am sure I hear carriage-wheels, uncle!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together.

“Of course; I knew they would come.  There was to be no such good luck as their not coming,” said Mr. Stillinghast, looking annoyed.  “One sister ran off—­married a papist—­died, and left you on my hands.  I was about sending you off again, when news came that your father had died on his voyage home from Canton, and been buried in the deep:  so here you stayed.  Brother—­spendthrift, shiftless, improvident—­marries a West Indian papist; turns one; dies with his wife, or, at least, soon after her leaving another ne’er-do-weel on my hands.  I wish you’d all gone to purgatory together.  To be shut up in my old days with two wild papists is abominable!” muttered the old man, slamming the ledgers together, until every thing on the table danced.  He pushed back his chair, and in another moment the door opened, and a tall, slender, beautiful girl entered, clad in deep mourning, with a wealth of golden curls rolling over her transparently fair cheeks.  She came with a graceful, but timid air, towards Mr. Stillinghast; and holding out her hand, said in a low, sweet tone,

“My uncle?”

“Yes, I have the misfortune to be your uncle; how do you do?”

“I am well, sir, I thank you,” she replied, whilst she cast down her eyes to conceal the tears which suffused them.

“I won’t pretend,” he said, at last, “to say you are welcome, or that I am glad to see you, because I should lie; but you are here now, and I can’t help it, neither can you, I suppose; therefore, settle yourself as quickly as possible in your new way of living. She will show you what is necessary, and both of you keep as much out of my way as possible.”  He then took his candlestick, lighted his candle, and retired, leaving the poor girl standing with a frightened, heart-broken look, in the middle of the floor.  For a moment she looked after him; then a sharp cry burst from her lips, and she turned to rush out into the wintry storm, when she suddenly felt herself enfolded in some one’s arms, who led her to the warmest corner of the sofa, untied her bonnet, folded back the dishevelled curls, and kissed the tears away from her cold, white cheeks.  It was May, whose heart had been gushing over with tenderness and sympathy, who had longed to throw her arms around her, and, welcome her home the moment she entered the house, but who dared not interfere with her uncle’s peculiar ways, or move until he led.

“Do not mind him, dear Helen; it is his ways:  he seems rough and stern, but in reality he is kind and good, dear,” she exclaimed.

“You are very kind; but, oh, I did not expect such a reception as this.  I hoped for something very, very different.  I cannot stay here—­it would kill me,” she sobbed, struggling to disengage her hand from Mary’s.

“Yes you will, dear,” pleaded May.  “Uncle Stillinghast is like our old clock—­it never strikes the hour true, yet the hands are always right to a second.  So do try, and not to mind.”