nose," he growled.

"Which will do you no evil, dear uncle, in soul, body, or estate; but
you had better wrap this comfort around your throat; I finished
knitting it last night for you," said May, in her quiet, cheerful way.

"For me, eh? It is very nice and soft--so--that does very well," said
Mr. Stillinghast, while one of those rare gleams, like sunshine, shot
over his countenance.

"I shall be very happy all day, sir," said May, gathering up the cups
and saucers.

"Why?"

"Because, sir, I thought--you might--"

"Throw it at your head, or in the fire, eh? I shall do neither; I
shall wear it. I have not forgot that confounded attack of quinsy I
had last winter, nor the doctor's bill that followed it, and which was
worse on me than the choking I got," said Mr. Stillinghast, while the
old, grim look settled on his face again. He went away, down to his
warehouse on the wharf, to grip and wrestle with _gain_, and barter
away the last remnants of his best and holiest instincts, little by
little; exchanging hopes of heaven for perishable things, and crushing
down the angel _conscience_, who would have led him safely to eternal
life, for the accumulated and unholy burthen of Mammon.

And May, singing cheerily, cleaned, and swept and rubbed, and polished,
and touched up things a little here and there, until the room was