"Oh, no! I like such work; but, May, could we not hunt up your old
maummy, if she is not too old, to come and wait?" asked Helen.

"She died two years ago, Helen," said May, turning away her head with a
quivering lip.

"How unfortunate! But, May, have you any fine table linen?"

"Yes; a number of fine damask tablecloths."

"And napkins?"

"None."

"Thank fortune, I have some four dozen East India napkins; they will
look quite splendid on the table this evening. But hurry on, May, I
wish to clear up to make room for my harp; I expect it every moment."

That evening, if Mr. Stillinghast had looked around him, he would
scarcely have recognized the sitting-room as the one he had left in the
morning. The round table, just large enough to seat four comfortably,
was elegantly spread with fine white damask, and crimson and old gold
china, of an antique and elegant pattern; sparkling cut glass, and
silver. Two wax candles burned in the old-fashioned silver
_candelabras_ in the centre, on each side of which stood two clusters
of geranium leaves and winter roses, arranged in small rich vases. The
grate looked resplendent, and a harp, of a magnificent pattern, heavily
carved and gilded, stood in a conspicuous place. Helen looked
exquisitely lovely. Her dress was the perfection of good taste, and
well did its elaborate simplicity suit her style of beauty. A single