make."

"Coffee to grind, and rolls to bake, for that horrid old man--"

"And ourselves. I tell you what, Helen, he could get on vastly well
without us, but how we should manage without him I cannot tell," said
May, gravely, for when occasion offered, she could so inflate and
expand her little form with dignity, and throw such a truthful
penetrating light into her splendid eyes, that it was quite terrifying.

"Go on, then; I shall follow you in a few moments. I have some prayers
to say." Helen's prayers were soon over. Religion was no vital
principle in her mind. It is true she held the germs of faith in her
soul, but they were like those bulbs and grains which are so often
found on the breast of mummies--which, unless exhumed, and exposed to
sunlight and air, never develop their latent life. So with her;
swathed, and wrapped, and crusted over with evil associations,
artificial feelings, and the maxims of the world, the germ was
hidden--buried--until the angel of repentance should reveal to her the
pearl she held, and lead her _beyond_ the vestibule of faith. She had
looked no farther; poor Helen; to the splendors, the consolations, and
rapture beyond, she was a stranger. It is not remarkable, then, that
when she encountered the stern changes and trials of life, the burden
galled and fretted her.

"How are you, ma'am; you are very welcome!" laughed May, when Helen
came down; "come near the fire, and while you warm yourself, take this
coffee-mill on your knees--turn the handle so, until all the grains
disappear, then begin the second stage."