"Then, sir, I ran up here, and found you on the floor, so ill--so very
ill," said May, hesitating, always unwilling to speak of her own acts.

"What then?"

"I did all that I could, sir, until the doctor came," she said.

"And that means _every thing_, Mr. Stillinghast. She saved your life.
She used the best remedies; she put ice about your head, and bled you.
When I came you were out of danger; but be calm, sir; let me beseech
you to be calm," said the doctor.

"Did you do all this, little May?" he asked, looking earnestly at her
with his piercing gray eyes.

"Yes, sir; I had read that such remedies were necessary."

"_Why_ did you do it, little one? My life or death is of no interest
to _you_. Tell me _why_ you did it?" he whispered.

"Oh, dear uncle, forgive me!" said May, while her tears dripped like
rain-drops on her wan cheek; "I knew that you had made no preparation
for death. I would have died that you might live long enough to effect
a reconciliation with Heaven."

"Profit--gain--loss--loss--loss!" he murmured; then suddenly he put up
his feeble hand, and drawing May's face closer to him, kissed her
cheek. "If it is not too late, pray for me!" he whispered, in tones so
low that she scarcely heard them.