"I saw nothing, sir, except the papers I went to get."
"And which you burned?"
"Which I burned up to the last scrap."
"Very well. You burned up the will too. You have been purified by fire with a vengeance. Do you still believe in guardian angels?"
"Just as firmly as ever, sir," she replied, fixing her clear eyes on him.
"Where was yours, pray, while you was doing just what the devil would have you?"
"Guarding me from evils to come, I trust. Oh, sir, it is very perilous to one's soul to be rich!" she exclaimed, with one of her sunlit expressions.
"Very well, again! 'Gad, how Plato would have loved you! But see here, you most uncommon of little bodies! I want just such a daughter as you are. My heart is desolate. All that I loved have passed away! Will you—will you come and keep house for me, like you did for old Stillinghast? Come—come, tell me at once; I am old and tottering," said the lawyer, trying to twinkle away a tear from his large gray eyes.
"Oh, dear me! dear, kind Mr. Fielding!" cried May, weeping on Mr. Fielding's shoulder; "I hope Heavenly Father will bless you for your kind intentions to a friendless orphan; but, indeed, sir, I cannot say—I don't think it would suit me to be dependent."
"Who wants you to be dependent?" roared out Mr. Fielding; "I'll hire you, if that will suit you better, to keep house, mend my stockings, and make tea for me; that will board you, and your splendid annuity will clothe you."