if she was ready to go down.

"I declare, May, you are a perfect little mouse. I did not know you
were up. Yes; I am ready now. I had quite forgotten that it was my
morning to make breakfast," she replied, returning the things to the
trunk without the least possible hurry.

"If you have any thing else to do, dear Helen; I mean--if--you have not
said your prayers yet, I will go down and get things in train for you,"
said May, timidly.

"Thank you, May, but I keep my own conscience. I have no time for my
prayers now--after breakfast will do," she replied, carelessly.

"Dear Helen, consider--"

"Dear May, I _won't_ consider," she interrupted her, "for I am in such
a ferment of delight, what with the idea of company, and having a harp
once more, I am really half wild, and could not pray for the life of
me--at least, as people _ought_ to pray. Oh, what different times we
shall have! Really, May, I have an idea that I shall have our old
savage dancing the Tarantula before to-morrow night," she exclaimed,
almost shrieking with laughter.

"Helen," began May, but checked herself, and burst into tears, which
she endeavored to conceal--such tears as angels shed over the
derelictions of the souls they are appointed to guard. Helen did not
observe them; giddy and selfish, she derived amusement from that which
was luring her soul further away from God; and, while May wept over her
peril, she thought only of the transient and fleeting enjoyments of the