"He has forgotten us, Charon! He has forgotten his two best friends- -you and I—who love him so well! Oh, Charon, he has forgotten us!" cried she, almost despairingly. Charon gave a melancholy groan of assent, and nestled closer to her. Five years had gone since he left his native land, and, for once, her faith was faint and wavering. But, after some moments, she looked up at the calm sky arching above her, and, wiping away her tears, added resignedly:

"But he will come! God will bring him home when he sees fit! I can wait! I can wait!"

Charon's great, gleaming black eyes met hers wistfully; he seemed dubious of his master's return. Beulah rose, and he obeyed the signal.

"Come, Charon, it is getting late; but we will come back some day, and live here."

It was dusk when she entered the library and found Mrs. Asbury discussing the political questions of the day with her husband. She had just finished reading aloud one of Reginald's Congressional speeches, and advocated it warmly, while the doctor reprobated some portion of his course.

"You have had a long walk," said Mrs. Asbury, looking up as the orphan entered.

"And look, for the universe, as if you had been ghost-seeing," cried the doctor, wiping his spectacles.

"I would rather meet an army of ghosts than see what I have seen!" answered Beulah.

"Good Heavens! In the name of wonder, what have you seen, child? A rattlesnake or a screech-owl?"

He put his broad palms on his knees, and looked mockingly curious and startled.

"I have been out to see the old place, sir; found the gate broken down, the front yard full of cows, and everything going to destruction, except the trees and hedges. Sir, it makes me feel very sad. I can't bear to have things go on this way any longer. It must be rectified."

"Bless my soul, that is easier said than done! The place is a perfect owl-roost, there is no denying that; but it is no business of ours. If Farley or his agent suffers the property to go to ruin, it is his loss."

"But I love the place. I want to save it. Won't you buy it, Dr. Asbury?"

"Won't I buy it? Why, what on earth do you suppose I should do with it? I don't want to live in it; and, as for any more investments in real estate, why, just excuse me, if you please! Insurance and repairs eat up all the profits, and I am plagued to death with petitions in the bargain."

"Then I must buy it myself!" said Beulah resolutely.

"In the name of common sense, tell me what you will do with it?"

"I don't know yet; keep it, I suppose, until he comes home again. How much do you suppose the Farleys ask for it?"

"I really cannot conjecture. But, child, you must not think of this. I will see the agent about it, and perhaps I may purchase it, to oblige you. I will not hear of your buying it. Guy certainly cannot contemplate heathenating much longer. There is that eternal door- bell again! Somebody that believes I am constructed of wire and gutta-percha, I dare say."

He leaned back, and watched the door very uneasily. A servant looked in.

"Mr. Leonard, to see Miss Beulah."

"Thank Heaven, it is nobody to see me!" The doctor settled himself comfortably, and laughed at the perturbed expression of Beulah's countenance.

"Ask him to excuse me this evening," said she, without rising.

"Nay, my dear; he was here this afternoon, and you had gone to walk. It would be rude not to see him. Go into the parlor; do, my dear; perhaps he will not detain you long," remonstrated Mrs. Asbury.

Beulah said nothing; she set her lips firmly, rose, and went to the parlor.

"I will wager my head he won't stay fifteen minutes, after he gets a glimpse of her face. Hugh ought to have sense enough to see that she does not fancy him," said the doctor, laughing.

"I should very much like to see the man she would fancy," answered his wife, knitting away busily on a purse for some sewing society.

"Oh, Alice! do you wonder she does not like Hugh Leonard? He is a 'catch,' as far as position, and money, and a certain sort of talent, and is very clever, and upright, I know; but he does not suit Beulah. If she would not marry Reginald, of course she won't marry Hugh."

Jangle! went the door bell once more, and this time the doctor was forced to leave his chair and slippers.

The winter had been very gay, and, without doubt, the belle of the season was Claudia Grayson. She had grown up a brilliant, imperious beauty. Petted most injudiciously by Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, the best elements of her character, instead of being fostered and developed, were smothered beneath vanity and arrogance; and soon selfishness became the dominant characteristic. To those whom she considered her inferiors she was supercilious and overbearing; while, even in her adopted home, she tyrannized over both servants and parents. Flattered and sought after in society, she was never happy unless the center of a gay circle. Ere long she discovered the heartlessness of her admirers; learned the malice and envy of the very people she visited most intimately; and once acquainted with their natures and habits, she found her greatest amusement in ridiculing those who did precisely the same thing the moment she left them. Beulah had never been able to conquer her feelings sufficiently to enter Mrs. Grayson's house; but she had met Claudia several times. The latter, when accompanied by any of her fashionable acquaintances, always shrank from recognizing her; and finally, thinking any allusion to former years, and the asylum, a personal insult, she passed her without even a bow. The first time this occurred Beulah was deeply wounded; she had loved Claudia very warmly, and her superciliousness was hard to bear. But the slight was repeated several times, and she learned to pity her weakness most sincerely.

"Ah!" thought she, "how much better it was that Lilly should die than live to grow up a heartless flirt like Claudy! Much better, little sister! Much better!"

It was the morning after her walk to the old home of her guardian that Dr. Asbury threw down the paper on the breakfast table with an exclamation of horror.

"What is the matter, George?" cried his wife, while Beulah grew deadly pale, and clutched the paper; her mind, like "Hinda's,"

"Still singling ONE from all mankind."

"Matter! Why, poor Grayson has committed suicide—shot himself last night, poor wretch! He has been speculating too freely and lost every cent; and, worse than that, used money to do it that was not his. He made desperate throws and lost all; and the end of it was that, when his operations were discovered, he shot himself, leaving his family utterly destitute. I heard yesterday that they would not have a cent; but never dreamed of his being so weak as to kill himself. Miserable mistake!"

"What will become of Mrs. Grayson and Claudia?" asked Beulah sorrowfully.

"I don't know, really. Mrs. Grayson has a brother living somewhere up the country; I suppose he will offer them a home, such as he has. I pity her. She is a weak creature,—weak, mind and body,—and this reverse will come very near killing her."

For some days nothing was discussed but the "Grayson tragedy." It was well the unhappy man could not listen to the fierce maledictions of disappointed creditors and the slanders which were now heaped upon his name. Whatever his motives might have been, the world called his offenses by the darkest names, and angry creditors vowed every knife, fork, and spoon should come under the hammer. The elegant house was sold—the furniture with it; and Mrs. Grayson and Claudia removed temporarily to a boarding house. Not one of their fashionable intimates approached them—no, not one. When Claudia went one day to her mantuamaker to have her mourning fitted, she met a couple of ladies who had formerly been constant visitors at the house and regular attendants at her parties. Unsuspectingly she hastened to meet them, but, to her astonishment, instead of greeting her in their usual fawning manner, they received her with a very cold bow, just touched the tips of her fingers, and, gathering up their robes, swept majestically from the room. Rage and mortification forced the tears into her eyes.

Mrs. Asbury had never admired Mrs. Grayson's character; she visited her formally about twice a year; but now, in this misfortune, she alone called to see her. When Claudia returned from the mantuamaker's she found Mrs. Asbury with her mother, and received from her hand a kind, friendly note from the girl she had so grossly insulted. Beulah was no flatterer; she wrote candidly and plainly; said she would have called at once had she supposed her company would be acceptable. She would gladly come and see Claudia whenever she desired to see her, and hoped that the memory of other years would teach her the sincerity of her friendship. Claudia wept bitterly as she read it, and vainly regretted the superciliousness which had alienated one she knew to be noble and trustworthy. She was naturally an impulsive creature, and, without a moment's hesitation, dashed off an answer, all blurred with tears, begging Beulah to overlook her "foolishness" and come to see her.

Accordingly, after school, Beulah went to the house where they were boarding. Claudia met her rather awkwardly, but Beulah kissed her as if nothing had ever occurred to mar their intercourse; and, after some desultory conversation, asked her what they expected to do.

"Heaven only knows! starve, I suppose." She spoke gloomily, and folded her soft white hands over each other, as if the idea of work was something altogether foreign to her mind.

"But, Claudia, I reckon you hardly expect to starve," answered Beulah, who could not forbear smiling.

"Dear knows what is to become of us—I am sure I don't! Mamma has a brother living in some out-of-the-way place up the country. But he does not like me—thinks some of his own children ought to have been adopted in my place. Heaven knows I have made nothing by the operation but a great disappointment; he need not be uneasy about the amount I am to get. But you see they don't want me, having an old spite at me, and mamma dislikes to ask them to take me; besides, I would almost as soon be buried at once as go to that farm, or plantation, or whatever it is. They have written to mamma to come, and she does not know what to do."

"You are a good musician, are you not?"

"No, not particularly. I never could endure to practice."

"Don't you draw and paint finely? I have heard that you did."

"Yes; but what good will it do me now, I should like to know?" She twirled her little plump, jeweled fingers indolently.

"It might do you a great deal of good, if you chose. You might support yourself by giving lessons," said Beulah decisively.

She drew up her shoulders, frowned, and pouted without making any answer.

"Claudy, you do not wish to be dependent on a man who dislikes you?"

"Not if I can help myself!"

"And you certainly do not wish to be the means of preventing Mrs. Grayson from having a comfortable home with her brother?"

Claudia burst into tears. She did not love her mother, did not even respect her, she was so very weak and childish; yet the young orphan felt very desolate, and knew not what to do. Beulah took her hand, and said kindly:

"If you are willing to help yourself, dear Claudy, I will gladly do all I can to assist you. I think I can secure you a situation as teacher of drawing, and, until you can make something at it, I will pay your board; and you shall stay with me, if you like. You can think about it, and let me know as soon as you decide." Claudia thanked her cordially, and, returning home, Beulah immediately imparted the plan to her friends. They thought it would scarcely succeed, Claudia had been so petted and spoiled. Beulah sat gazing into the fire for a while; then, looking at the doctor, said abruptly:

"There is that Graham money, sir, doing nobody any good."

"That is just what I have been telling you for the last six years. I have invested it carefully, until it has almost doubled itself."

"It would make them very comfortable," continued she thoughtfully.

"Make them very comfortable!" repeated the doctor, throwing his cigar into the grate, and turning suddenly toward her.

"Yes—Claudia and Mrs. Grayson."

"Beulah Benton! are you going insane, I should like to know? Here you are, working hard every day of your life, and do you suppose I shall suffer you to give that legacy (nearly nine thousand dollars!) to support two broken-down fashionables in idleness? Who ever heard of such a piece of business since the world began? I will not consent to it! I tell you now, the money shall not leave my hands for any such purpose."

"I don't want it myself. I never shall touch a dollar of it for my own use," said she resolutely.

"All very fine now. But wait till you get superannuated, or such a cripple with rheumatism that you can't hobble to that schoolhouse, which you seem to love better than your own soul. Wait till then, I say, and see whether some of this money will not be very acceptable."

"That time will never come, sir; never!" answered Beulah, laughing.

"Beulah Benton, you are a simpleton!" said he, looking affectionately at her from beneath his shaggy brows.

"I want that money, sir."

"You shall not have one cent of it. The idea of your playing Lady Bountiful to the Graysons! Pshaw! not a picayune shall you have."

"Oh, sir, it would make me so very happy to aid them. You cannot conceive how much pleasure it would afford me."

"Look here, child; all that sort of angelic disinterestedness sounds very well done up in a novel, but the reality is quite another matter. Mrs. Grayson treated you like a brute; and it is not to be expected that you will have any extraordinary degree of affection for her. Human nature is spiteful and unforgiving; and as for your piling coals of fire on her head to the amount of nine thousand dollars, that is being entirely too magnanimous!"

"I want to make Mrs. Grayson amends, sir. Once, when I was maddened by sorrow and pain, I said something which I always repented bitterly." As Beulah spoke, a cloud swept across her face.

"What was it, child? what did you say?"

"I cursed her! besought God to punish her severely for her unkindness to me. I hardly knew what I was saying; but even then it shocked me, and I prayed God to forgive my passion. I shudder when I remember it. I have forgiven her heartlessness long ago; and now, sir, I want you to give me that money. If it is mine at all, it is mine to employ as I choose."

"Cornelia did not leave the legacy to the Graysons."

"Were she living, she would commend the use I am about to make of it. Will you give me five thousand dollars of it?"

"Oh, Beulah, you are a queer compound! a strange being!"

"Will you give me five thousand dollars of that money tomorrow?" persisted Beulah, looking steadily at him.

"Yes, child; if you will have it so." His voice trembled, and he looked at the orphan with moist eyes.

Mrs. Asbury had taken no part in the conversation, but her earnest face attested her interest. Passing her arm around Beulah's waist, she hastily kissed her brow, and only said:

"God bless you, my dear, noble Beulah!"

"I do not see that I am at all magnanimous in giving away other people's money. If I had earned it by hard labor, and then given it to Claudy, there would have been some more show of generosity. Here come Georgia and her husband; you do not need me to read this evening, and I have work to do." She extricated herself from Mrs. Asbury's clasping arm and retired to her own room. The following day Claudia came to say that, as she knew not what else to do, she would gladly accept the position mentioned as teacher of drawing and painting. Mrs. Grayson's brother had come to take her home, but she was unwilling to be separated from Claudia. Beulah no longer hesitated, and the sum of five thousand dollars seemed to poor Claudia a fortune indeed. She could not understand how the girl whom she and her mother had insulted could possibly have the means of making them so comparatively comfortable. Beulah briefly explained the circumstances which had enabled her to assist them. The bulk of the money remained in Dr. Asbury's hands, and Claudia was to apply to him whenever she needed it. She and her mamma found a cheaper boarding house, and Claudia's duties began at once. Mrs. Grayson was overwhelmed with shame when the particulars were made known to her, and tears of bitter mortification could not obliterate the memory of the hour when she cruelly denied the prayer of the poor orphan to whom she now owed the shelter above her head. Beulah did not see her for many weeks subsequent; she knew how painful such a meeting would be to the humbled woman, and, while she constantly cheered and encouraged Claudia in her work, she studiously avoided Mrs. Grayson's presence.

Thus the winter passed; and once more the glories of a Southern spring were scattered over the land. To the Asburys Beulah was warmly attached, and her residence with them was as pleasant as any home could possibly have been which was not her own. They were all that friends could be to an orphan; still, she regretted her little cottage, and missed the home-feeling she had prized so highly. True, she had constant access to the greenhouse, and was rarely without her bouquet of choice flowers; but these could not compensate her for the loss of her own little garden. She struggled bravely with discontent; tried to look only on the sunshine in her path and to be always cheerful. In this she partially succeeded. No matter how lonely and sad she felt, she hid it carefully, and the evenings in the library were never marred by words of repining or looks of sorrow. To the close observer there were traces of grief in her countenance; and sometimes when she sat sewing while Mrs. Asbury read aloud, it was easy to see that her thoughts had wandered far from that little room. Time had changed her singularly since the old asylum days. She was now a finely formed, remarkably graceful woman, with a complexion of dazzling transparency. She was always pale, but the blue veins might be traced anywhere on her brow and temples; and the dark, gray eyes, with their long, jetty, curling lashes, possessed an indescribable charm, even for strangers. She had been an ugly child, but certainly she was a noble-looking, if not handsome, woman. To all but the family with whom she resided she was rather reserved; and while the world admired and eulogized her talents as a writer, she felt that, except Eugene, she had no friends beyond the threshold of the house she lived in. As weeks and months elapsed, and no news of her wandering guardian came, her hope began to pale. For weary years it had burned brightly; but constant disappointment was pressing heavily on her heart and crushing out the holy spark. The heartstrings will bear rude shocks and sudden rough handling, but the gradual tightening, the unremitted tension of long, tediously rolling years, will in time accomplish what fierce assaults cannot. Continually she prayed for his return; but, despite her efforts, her faith grew fainter as each month crept by and her smile became more constrained and joyless. She never spoke of her anxiety, never alluded to him; but pressed her hands over her aching heart and did her work silently—nay, cheerfully.



CHAPTER XL.

The day was dull, misty, and gusty. All the morning there had been a driving southeasterly rain; but toward noon there was a lull. The afternoon was heavy and threatening, while armies of dense clouds drifted before the wind. Dr. Asbury had not yet returned from his round of evening visits; Mrs. Asbury had gone to the asylum to see a sick child, and Georgia was dining with her husband's mother. Beulah came home from school more than usually fatigued; one of the assistant teachers was indisposed, and she had done double work to relieve her. She sat before her desk, writing industriously on an article she had promised to complete before the end of the week. Her head ached; the lines grew dim, and she laid aside her manuscript and leaned her face on her palms. The beautiful lashes lay against her brow, for the eyes were raised to the portrait above her desk, and she gazed up at the faultless features with an expression of sad hopelessness. Years had not filled the void in her heart with other treasures. At this hour it ached with its own desolation, and, extending her arms imploringly toward the picture, she exclaimed sorrowfully:

"O my God, how long must I wait? Oh, how long!"

She opened the desk, and, taking out a key, left her room and slowly ascended to the third story. Charon crept up the steps after her. She unlocked the apartment which Mrs. Asbury had given into her charge some time before, and, raising one of the windows, looped back the heavy blue curtains which gave a somber hue to all within. From this elevated position she could see the stormy, sullen waters of the bay breaking against the wharves, and hear their hoarse muttering as they rocked themselves to rest after the scourging of the tempest. Gray clouds hung low, and scudded northward: everything looked dull and gloomy. She turned from the window and glanced around the room. It was at all times a painful pleasure to come here, and now, particularly, the interior impressed her sadly. Here were the paintings and statues she had long been so familiar with, and here, too, the melodeon which at rare intervals she opened. The house was very quiet; not a sound came up from below; she raised the lid of the instrument, and played a plaintive prelude. Echoes seven or eight years old suddenly fell on her ears; she had not heard one note of this air since she left Dr. Hartwell's roof. It was a favorite song of his; a German hymn he had taught her, and now after seven years she sang it. It was a melancholy air, and, as her trembling voice rolled through the house, she seemed to live the old days over again. But the words died away on her lips; she had overestimated her strength; she could not sing it. The marble images around her, like ghosts of the past, looked mutely down at her grief. She could not weep; her eyes were dry, and there was an intolerable weight on her heart. Just before her stood the Niobe, rigid and woeful; she put her hands over her eyes, and drooped her face on the melodeon. Gloom and despair crouched at her side, their gaunt hands tugging at the anchor of hope. The wind rose and howled round the corners of the house; how fierce it might be on trackless seas, driving lonely barks down to ruin and strewing the main with ghastly upturned faces! She shuddered and groaned. It was a dark hour of trial, and she struggled desperately with the phantoms that clustered about her. Then there came other sounds: Charon's shrill, frantic bark and whine of delight. For years she had not heard that peculiar bark, and started up in wonder. On the threshold stood a tall form, with a straw hat drawn down over the features; but Charon's paws were on the shoulders and his whine of delight ceased not. He fell down at his master's feet and caressed them. Beulah looked an instant, and sprang into the doorway, holding out her arms, with a wild, joyful cry.

"Come at last! Oh, thank God! Come at last!" Her face was radiant, her eyes burned, her glowing lips parted.

Leaning against the door, with his arms crossed over his broad chest, Dr. Hartwell stood, silently regarding her. She came close to him, and her extended arms trembled; still he did not move, did not speak.

"Oh, I knew you would come; and, thank God, now you are here. Come home at last!"

She looked up at him so eagerly; but he said nothing. She stood an instant irresolute, then threw her arms around his neck and laid her head on his bosom, clinging closely to him. He did not return the embrace, but looked down at the beaming face and sighed; then he put his hand softly on her head, and smoothed the rippling hair. A brilliant smile broke over her features, as she felt the remembered touch of his fingers on her forehead, and she repeated in the low tones of deep gladness:

"I knew you would come; oh, sir, I knew you would come back to me!"

"How did you know it, child?" he said, for the first time.

Her heart leaped wildly at the sound of the loved voice she had so longed to hear, and she answered tremblingly:

"Because for weary years I have prayed for your return. Oh, only God knows how fervently I prayed! and he has heard me."

She felt his strong frame quiver; he folded his arms about her, clasped her to his heart with a force that almost suffocated her, and, bending his head, kissed her passionately. Suddenly his arms relaxed their clasp; holding her off, he looked at her keenly, and said:

"Beulah Benton, do you belong to the tyrant Ambition, or do you belong to that tyrant Guy Hartwell? Quick, child; decide!"

"I have decided," said she. Her cheeks burned; her lashes drooped.

"Well?"

"Well, if I am to have a tyrant, I believe I prefer belonging to you?"

He frowned. She smiled and looked up at him.

"Beulah, I don't want a grateful wife. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

Just then his eyes rested on the portrait of Creola, which hung opposite. He drew back a step, and she saw the blood leave his lips, as he gazed upon it. Lifting his hand, he said sternly:

"Ah, what pale specters that face calls up from the grim, gray ruins of memory! Doubtless you know my miserable history. I married her, thinking I had won her love. She soon undeceived me. We separated. I once asked you to be my wife, and you told me you would rather die. Child, years have not dealt lightly with me since then. I am no longer a young man. Look here!" He threw off his hat, and, passing his fingers through his curling hair, she saw, here and there, streaks of silver. He watched her as she noted it. She saw, too, how haggard he looked, now that the light fell full on his pale face. The splendid, dark eyes were unaltered, and, as they looked down into hers, tears gathered on her lashes, her lips trembled, and, throwing her arms again round his neck, she laid her face on his shoulder.

"Beulah, do you cling to me because you love me? or because you pity me? or because you are grateful to me for past love and kindness? Answer me, Beulah."

"Because you are my all."

"How long have I been your all?"

"Oh, longer than I knew myself!" was the evasive reply.

He tried to look at her, but she pressed her face close to his shoulder and would not suffer it.

"Beulah!"

"Sir."

"Oh, don't 'sir' me, child! I want to know the truth, and you will not satisfy me."

"I have told you the truth."

"Have you learned that fame is an icy shadow? that gratified ambition cannot make you happy? Do you love me?"

"Yes."

"Better than teaching school and writing learned articles?"

"Rather better, I believe, sir."

"Beulah!"

"Well, sir."

"You have changed in many things since we parted, nearly six years ago!"

"Yes; I thank God, I am changed. My infidelity was a source of many sorrows; but the clouds have passed from my mind; I have found the truth in Holy Writ." Now she raised her head, and looked at him very earnestly.

"Child, does your faith make you happy?"

"Yes; the universe could not purchase it," she answered solemnly.

There was a brief silence. He put both hands on her shoulders, and, stooping down, kissed her brow.

"And you prayed for me, Beulah?"

"Yes; evening and morning. Prayed that you might be shielded from all dangers and brought safely home. And there was one other thing which I prayed for not less fervently than for your return: that God would melt your hard, bitter heart, and give you a knowledge of the truth of the Christian religion. Oh, sir, I thought sometimes that possibly you might die in a far-off land, and then I should see you no more, in time or eternity! and oh, the thought nearly drove me wild! My guardian, my all, let me not have prayed in vain." She clasped his hand in hers, and looked up pleadingly into the loved face; and, for the first time in her life, she saw tears glistening in the burning eyes. He said nothing, however; took her face in his hands, and scanned it earnestly, as if reading all that had passed during his long absence. Presently he asked:

"So you would not marry Lindsay and go to Congress. Why not?"

"Who told you anything about him?"

"No matter. Why did not you marry him?"

"Because I did not love him."

"He is a noble-hearted, generous man."

"Yes, very; I do not know his superior."

"What!"

"I mean what I say," said she firmly.

He smiled, one of his genial, irresistible smiles; and she smiled also, despite herself. "Give me your hand, Beulah?"

She did so very quietly.

"There—is it mine?"

"Yes, sir; if you want it."

"And may I claim it as soon as I choose?"

"Yes, sir."

She had never seen him look as he did then. His face kindled, as if in a broad flash of light; the eyes dazzled her, and she turned her face away, as he drew her once more to his bosom, and exclaimed:

"At last, then, after years of sorrow, and pain, and bitterness, I shall be happy in my own home; shall have a wife, a companion, who loves me for myself alone. Ah, Beulah, my idol; I will make you happy!"

The rain fell heavily, and it grew dark, for the night came rapidly down. There was a furious ringing of the library bell; the doctor had come home, and, as usual, wanted half a dozen things at once.

"Have you seen Dr. Asbury?"

"No. I came directly to the house; saw no one as I entered; and, hearing the melodeon, followed the sound."

"What a joyful surprise it will be to him!" said Beulah, closing the window and locking the melodeon. She led the way down the steps, followed by her guardian and Charon. "Suppose you wait a while in the music room? It adjoins the library, and you can see and hear without being seen." suggested she, with her hand on the bolt of the door. He assented, and stood near the threshold which connected the rooms, while Beulah went into the library. The gas burned brightly, and the doctor sat leaning far back in his armchair, with his feet on an ottoman. His wife stood near him, stroking the gray hair from his furrowed brow.

"Alice, I wish, dear, you would get me an iced lemonade, will you?"

"Let me make it for you," said Beulah, coming forward.

"Not you! At your peril, you touch it. You are overfond of the sour, miss. Alice knows exactly how to suit me."

"So you have turned homeopathist? take acids to—"

"None of your observations, if you please. Just be good enough to open the shutters, will you? It is as hot in this room as if the equator ran between my feet and the wall. Charming weather, eh? And still more charming prospect, that I shall have to go out into it again before bedtime. One of my delectable patients has taken it into his head to treat his wife and children to a rare show, in the shape of a fit of mania-a-potu; and, ten to one, I shall have to play spectator all night." He yawned as he spoke.

"You have an arduous time indeed," began Beulah; but he hastily put in:

"Oh, of all poor devils, we pill-box gentry do have the hardest times! I am sick of patients, sick of physic, sick of the very sound of my own name."

"If my guardian were only here to relieve—"

"Confound your guardian! Don't mention him in my presence. He is a simpleton. He is what the 'Ettrick Shepherd' calls a 'Sumph.' You have no guardian, I can tell you that. Before this he has gone through all the transmigrations of 'Indur,' and the final metempsychosis, gave him to the world a Celestial. Yes, child; a Celestial. I fancy him at this instant, with two long plaits of hair trailing behind him, as, with all the sublime complacency of Celestials, he stalks majestically along, picking tea leaves. Confound your guardian. Mention his name to me again, at the peril of having your board raised."

"George, what is the matter with you?" asked his wife, smiling as she handed him the lemonade he had desired.

"This prating young woman is, as usual, trying to discourse of— Alice, this is just right. Thank you, my dear." He drained the glass and handed it back. Beulah stood so that the light shone full on her face. He looked at her a moment, and exclaimed:

"Come here, child. What ails you? Why, bless my soul, Beulah, what is the matter? I never saw the blood in your face before; and your great, solemn eyes seem to be dancing a jig. What ails you, child?" He grasped her hands eagerly.

"Nothing ails me; I am well—"

"I know better! Has Charon gone mad and bit you? Oho! by all the dead gods of Greece, Guy has come home. Where is he? Where is he?"

He sprang up, nearly knocking his wife down, and looked around the room. Dr. Hartwell emerged from the music room and advanced to meet him.

"Oh, Guy! You heathen! you Philistine! you prodigal!"

He bounded over a chair and locked his arms round the tall form, while his gray head dropped on his friend's shoulder. Beulah stole out quickly, and, in the solitude of her own room, fell on her knees and returned thanks to the God who hears and answers prayer.



CHAPTER XLI.

It was a sparkling August morning—one of those rare days when all nature seems jubilant. The waters of the bay glittered like a sheet of molten silver; the soft Southern breeze sang through the treetops, and the cloudless sky wore that deep shade of pure blue which is nowhere so beautiful as in our sunny South. Clad in a dress of spotless white, with her luxuriant hair braided and twined with white flowers, Beulah stood beside her window, looking out into the street below. Her hands were clasped tightly over her heart, and on one slender finger blazed a costly diamond, the seal of her betrothal. She was very pale; now and then her lips quivered, and her lashes were wet with tears. Yet this was her marriage day. She had just risen from her knees, and her countenance told of a troubled heart. She loved her guardian above everything else; knew that, separated from him, life would be a dreary blank to her; yet, much as she loved him, she could not divest herself of a species of fear, of dread. The thought of being his wife filled her with vague apprehension. He had hastened the marriage; the old place had been thoroughly repaired and refurnished, and this morning she would go home a wife. She clasped her hands over her eyes; the future looked fearful. She knew the passionate, exacting nature of the man with whose destiny she was about to link her own, and she shrank back, as the image of Creola rose before her. The door opened, and Mrs. Asbury entered, accompanied by Dr. Hartwell. The orphan looked up, and leaned heavily against the window. Mrs. Asbury broke the silence.

"They are waiting for you, my dear. The minister came some moments ago. The clock has struck ten."

She handed her a pair of gloves from the table, and stood in the door, waiting for her. Beulah drew them on, and then, with a long breath, glanced at Dr. Hartwell. He looked restless, and, she thought, sterner, than she had seen him since his return. He was very pale and his lips were compressed firmly.

"You look frightened, Beulah. You tremble," said he, drawing her arm through his and fixing his eyes searchingly on her face. "Yes. Oh, yes. I believe I am frightened," she answered, with a constrained smile.

She saw his brow darken and his cheek flush; but he said no more, and led her down to the parlor, where the members of the family were assembled. Claudia and Eugene were also present. The minister met them in the center of the room; and there, in the solemn hush, a few questions were answered, a plain band of gold encircled her finger, and the deep tones of the clergyman pronounced her Guy Hartwell's wife. Eugene took her in his arms and kissed her tenderly, whispering:

"God bless you, dear sister and friend! I sincerely hope that your married life will prove happier than mine."

Their congratulations wearied her, and she was glad when the carriage came to bear her away. Bidding adieu to her friends, she was handed into the carriage, and Dr. Hartwell took the seat beside her. The ride was short; neither spoke, and when the door was opened, and she entered the well-remembered house, she would gladly have retreated to the greenhouse and sought solitude to collect her thoughts; but a hand caught hers, and she soon found herself seated on a sofa in the study. She felt that a pair of eyes were riveted on her face, and suddenly the blood surged into her white cheeks. Her hand lay clasped in his, and her head drooped lower, to avoid his searching gaze.

"Oh, Beulah! my wife! why are you afraid of me?"

The low, musical tones caused her heart to thrill strangely; she made a great effort, and lifted her head. She saw the expression of sorrow that clouded his face; saw his white brow wrinkle; and, as her eyes fell on the silver threads scattered through his brown hair, there came an instant revolution of feeling. Fear vanished; love reigned supreme. She threw her arms up about his neck, and exclaimed:

"I am not afraid of you now. May God bless my guardian! my husband!"

Reader, marriage is not the end of life; it is but the beginning of a new course of duties; but I cannot now follow Beulah. Henceforth her history is bound up with another's. To save her husband from his unbelief is the labor of future years. She had learned to suffer and to bear patiently; and though her path looks sunny, and her heart throbs with happy hopes, this one shadow lurks over her home and dims her joys. Weeks and months glided swiftly on. Dr. Hartwell's face lost its stern rigidity, and his smile became constantly genial. His wife was his idol; day by day his love for her seemed more completely to revolutionize his nature. His cynicism melted insensibly away; his lips forgot their iron compression; now and then, his long-forgotten laugh rang through the house. Beulah was conscious of the power she wielded, and trembled lest she failed to employ it properly. One Sabbath afternoon she sat in her room, with her cheek on her hand, absorbed in earnest thought. Her little Bible lay on her lap, and she was pondering the text she had heard that morning. Charon came and nestled his huge head against her. Presently she heard the quick tramp of hoofs and whir of wheels; and soon after her husband entered and sat down beside her.

"What are you thinking of?" said he, passing his hand over her head caressingly.

"Thinking of my life—of the bygone years of struggle."

"They are past, and can trouble you no more. 'Let the dead past bury its dead!'"

"No; my past can never die. I ponder it often, and it does me good; strengthens me, by keeping me humble. I was just thinking of the dreary, desolate days and nights I passed, searching for a true philosophy and going further astray with every effort. I was so proud of my intellect; put so much faith in my own powers; it was no wonder I was so benighted."

"Where is your old worship of genius?" asked her husband, watching her curiously.

"I have not lost it all. I hope I never shall. Human genius has accomplished a vast deal for man's temporal existence. The physical sciences have been wheeled forward in the march of mind, and man's earthly path gemmed with all that a merely sensual nature could desire. But, looking aside from these channels, what has it effected for philosophy, that great burden, which constantly recalls the fabled labors of Sisyphus and the Danaides? Since the rising of Bethlehem's star, in the cloudy sky of polytheism, what has human genius discovered of God, eternity, destiny? Metaphysicians build gorgeous cloud palaces, but the soul cannot dwell in their cold, misty atmosphere. Antiquarians wrangle and write; Egypt's moldering monuments are raked from their desert graves, and made the theme of scientific debate; but has all this learned disputation contributed one iota to clear the thorny way of strict morality? Put the Bible out of sight, and how much will human intellect discover concerning our origin-our ultimate destiny? In the morning of time sages handled these vital questions, and died, not one step nearer the truth than when they began. Now, our philosophers struggle, earnestly and honestly, to make plain the same inscrutable mysteries. Yes; blot out the records of Moses, and we would grope in starless night; for, notwithstanding the many priceless blessings it has discovered for man, the torch of science will never pierce and illumine the recesses over which Almighty God has hung his veil. Here we see, indeed, as 'through a glass, darkly.' Yet I believe the day is already dawning when scientific data will not only cease to be antagonistic to Scriptural accounts, but will deepen the impress of Divinity on the pages of Holy Writ; when 'the torch shall be taken out of the hand of the infidel, and set to burn in the temple of the living God'; when Science and Religion shall link hands. I revere the lonely thinkers to whom the world is indebted for its great inventions. I honor the tireless laborers who toil in laboratories; who sweep midnight skies in search of new worlds; who unheave primeval rocks, hunting for footsteps of Deity; and I believe that every scientific fact will ultimately prove but another lamp planted along the path which leads to a knowledge of Jehovah! Ah! it is indeed peculiarly the duty of Christians 'to watch, with reverence and joy, the unveiling of the august brow of Nature by the hand of Science; and to be ready to call mankind to a worship ever new'! Human thought subserves many useful, nay, noble, ends; the Creator gave it, as a powerful instrument, to improve man's temporal condition; but oh, sir, I speak of what I know, when I say: alas, for that soul who forsakes the divine ark, and embarks on the gilded toys of man's invention, hoping to breast the billows of life and be anchored safely in the harbor of eternal rest! The heathens, 'having no law, are a law unto themselves'; but for such as deliberately reject the given light, only bitter darkness remains. I know it; for I, too, once groped, wailing for help."

"Your religion is full of mystery," said her husband gravely.

"Yes; of divine mystery. Truly, 'a God comprehended is no God at all!' Christianity is clear, as to rules of life and duty. There is no mystery left about the directions to man; yet there is a divine mystery infolding it, which tells of its divine origin, and promises a fuller revelation when man is fitted to receive it. If it were not so we would call it man's invention. You turn from Revelation because it contains some things you cannot comprehend; yet you plunge into a deeper, darker mystery when you embrace the theory of an eternal, self-existing universe, having no intelligent creator, yet constantly creating intelligent beings. Sir, can you understand how matter creates mind?"

She had laid her Bible on his knee; her folded hands rested upon it, and her gray eyes, clear and earnest, looked up reverently into her husband's noble face. His soft hand wandered over her head, and he seemed pondering her words.

May God aid the wife in her holy work of love!

THE END