Profit--gain--loss. I understand them!" he gasped. "_I_ have heaped
up gains; of earthly profit I have my share; and now, at the eleventh
hour, it is summed up, and what is it--yes, what is it? IT IS LOSS.
For all that is mortal, I have toiled my best hours away; for all 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,