that
is _immortal_, not one hour have I spared. It is loss--loss--eternal
loss." And so he went on muttering--back to his den in the city, where
the leaden waves of business again came surging, breast high, around
him; but through the dull, heavy sounds, the warning still rung, like
distant knells, through his soul.

On his homeward way that night, the farther he receded from the noise
of the city, the more it distinctly sounded, with its requiem wail,
through the dreary chambers of his heart; and, somehow, he suddenly
remembered, as he paused to rest, that it was on this very spot that he
had seen Father Fabian administering the last rites of the church to a
dying penitent; and he trembled, and hurried on, until he came to his
own door. May was sitting up alone for him; and when she opened the
door, and the rays from the hall lamp fell on his features, she saw
that he looked ill and weary.

"Let me assist you, dear uncle," said May, taking his hat and returning
to help him draw off his coat. "I fear you are not well."

"It is very cold," he replied, shivering, and yielding to her wishes.

"You will soon feel better, sir; see what a nice fire here is--and I
have a piping-hot cup of tea and hot muffins for your supper."

"May Brooke," said the strange old man, while he laid his cold, heavy
hand on her shoulder, "stop; answer the questions I shall ask you,
truly and honestly."

"I will endeavor to do so, sir," replied May, lifting her clear, bright
eyes to his.

"You can, and _must_. What object have you in providing for that old
negro woman, on the outskirts of the city?"

"I pity her, sir, because she is poor and helpless, and do it, I hope,
for the love of God," she said, amazed, but quiet.

"Very well. And now, for the love of God, answer _this_," he said,
with anxiety; "tell me _how_, you provide for her--_how_ you get means
to buy wood and necessaries?"

"Dear uncle, I am sorry you have found it out. I do not like to speak
of it--indeed, I would prefer not--it seems--so--yes--it seems like
boasting, or talking too much about myself," said May, while her cheeks
flushed crimson.

"Go on; I will know!" he said, harshly.

"Yes, sir. I earn a trifle every two or three weeks by knitting fancy
articles, which Mrs. Tabb on C---- Street, disposes of for me--"

"And then--"

"And then, sir, I take care of old Mabel with the proceeds; but please,
dear, dear uncle, do not forbid me to continue doing so