"You have murdered her! I knew it would be so, when you took my darling from my arms, and refused my prayer! Aye, my prayer! I knelt and prayed you, in the name of God, to let me see her once more; to let me hold her to my heart, and kiss her lips, and forehead, and little slender hands. You scorned a poor girl's prayer; you taunted me with my poverty, and locked me from my darling, my Lilly, my all! Oh, woman! you drove me wild, and I cursed you and your husband. Ha! Has your wealth and splendor saved her? God have mercy upon me, I feel as if I could curse you eternally. Could you not have sent for me before she died? Oh, if I could only have taken her in my arms, and seen her soft angel eyes looking up to me, and felt her little arms around my neck, and heard her say 'sister' for the last time! Would it have taken a dime from your purse, or made you less fashionable, to have sent for me before she died? 'Such measure as ye mete, shall be meted to you again.' May you live to have your heart trampled and crushed, even as you have trampled mine!"

Her arm sank to her side, and once more the blazing eyes were fastened on the young sleeper; while Mrs. Grayson, cowering like a frightened child, left the room. Beulah fell on her knees, and, crossing her arms on the table, bowed her head; now and then broken, wailing tones passed the white lips. Dr. Hartwell stood in a recess of the window, with folded arms and tightly compressed mouth, watching the young mourner. Once he moved toward her, then drew back, and a derisive smile distorted his features, as though he scorned himself for the momentary weakness. He turned suddenly away, and reached the door, but paused to look back. The old straw bonnet, with its faded pink ribbon, had fallen off, and heavy folds of black hair veiled the bowed face. He noted the slight, quivering form, and the thin hands, and a look of remorseful agony swept over his countenance. A deadly pallor settled on cheek and brow, as, with an expression of iron resolve, he retraced his steps, and, putting his hand on the orphan's shoulder, said gently:

"Beulah, this is no place for you. Come with me, child."

She shrank from his touch, and put up one hand, waving him off.

"Your sister died with the scarlet fever, and Claudia is now very ill with it. If you stay here you will certainly take it yourself."

"I hope I shall take it."

He laid his fingers on the pale, high brow, and, softly drawing back the thick hair, said earnestly: "Beulah, come home with me. Be my child; my daughter."

Again her hand was raised to put him aside.

"No. You too would hate me for my ugliness. Let me hide it in the grave with Lilly. They cannot separate us there." He lifted her head; and, looking down into the haggard face, answered kindly:

"I promise you I will not think you ugly. I will make you happy. Come to me, child." She shook her head with a moan. Passing his arm around her, he raised her from the carpet, and leaned her head against him.

"Poor little sufferer! they have made you drink, prematurely, earth's bitter draughts. They have disenchanted your childhood of its fairy-like future. Beulah, you are ill now. Do not struggle so. You must come with me, my child." He took her in his strong arms, and bore her out of the house of death. His buggy stood at the door, and, seating himself in it, he directed the boy who accompanied him to "drive home." Beulah offered no resistance; she hid her face in her hands, and sat quite still, scarcely conscious of what passed. She knew that a firm arm held her securely, and, save her wretchedness, knew nothing else. Soon she was lifted out of the buggy, carried up a flight of steps, and then a flood of light flashed through the fingers upon her closed eyelids. Dr. Hartwell placed his change on a sofa, and rank the bell. The summons was promptly answered by a negro woman of middle age. She stood at the door awaiting the order, but his eyes were bent on the floor, and his brows knitted.

"Master, did you ring?"

"Yes; tell my sister to come to me."

He took a turn across the floor, and paused by the open window. As the night air rustled the brown locks on his temples, he sighed deeply. The door opened, and a tall, slender woman, of perhaps thirty-five years, entered the room. She was pale and handsome, with a profusion of short chestnut curls about her face. With her hand resting on the door, she said, in a calm, clear tone:

"Well, Guy."

He started, and, turning from the window, approached her.

"May, I want a room arranged for this child as soon as possible. Will you see that a hot footbath is provided? When it is ready, send Harriet for her."

His sister's lips curled as she looked searchingly at the figure on the sofa, and said coldly:

"What freak now, Guy?"

For a moment their eyes met steadily, and he smiled grimly.

"I intend to adopt that poor little orphan; that is all!"

"Where did you pick her up, at the hospital?" said she sneeringly.

"No, she has been hired as a nurse, at a boarding house." He folded his arms, and again they looked at each other.

"I thought you had had quite enough of protegees." She nervously clasped and unclasped her jet bracelet.

"Take care, May Ohilton! Mark me. Lift the pall from the past once more, and you and Pauline must find another home, another protector. Now, will you see that a room is prepared as I directed?" He was very pale, and his eyes burned fiercely, yet his tone was calm and subdued. Mrs. Chilton bit her lips and withdrew. Dr. Hartwell walked up and down the room for a while, now and then looking sadly at the young stranger. She sat just as he had placed her, with her hands over her face. Kindly he bent down, and whispered:

"Will you trust me, Beulah?"

She made no answer; but he saw her brow wrinkle, and knew that she shuddered. The servant came in to say that the room had been arranged, as he had directed. However surprised she might have been at this sudden advent of the simply clad orphan in her master's study, there was not the faintest indication of it in her impenetrable countenance. Not even the raising of an eyebrow.

"Harriet, see that her feet are well bathed; and, when she is in bed, come for some medicine."

Then, drawing the hands from her eyes, he said to Beulah:

"Go with her, my child. I am glad I have you safe under my own roof, where no more cruel injustice can assail you."

He pressed her hand kindly, and, rising mechanically, Beulah accompanied Harriet, who considerately supported the drooping form. The room to which she was conducted was richly furnished, and lighted by an elegant colored lamp, suspended from the ceiling. Mrs. Chilton stood near an armchair, looking moody and abstracted. Harriet carefully undressed the poor mourner, and, wrapping a shawl about her, placed her in the chair, and bathed her feet. Mrs. Chilton watched her with ill-concealed impatience. When the little dripping feet were dried, Harriet lifted her, as if she had been an infant, and placed her in bed, then brought the medicine from the study, and administered a spoonful of the mixture. Placing her finger on the girl's wrist, she counted the rapid pulse, and, turning unconcernedly toward Mrs. Chilton, said:

"Miss May, master says you need not trouble about the medicine. I am to sleep in the room and take care of this little girl."

"Very well. See that she is properly attended to, as my brother directed. My head aches miserably, or I should remain myself."

She glanced at the bed, and left the room. Harriet leaned over the pillow and examined the orphan's countenance. The eyes were closed, but scalding tears rolled swiftly over the cheeks, and the hands were clasped over the brow, as if to still its throbbings. Harriet's face softened, and she said kindly:

"Poor thing! what ails you? What makes you cry so?"

Beulah pressed her head closer to the pillow, and murmured:

"I am so miserable! I want to die, and God will not take me."

"Don't say that till you see whether you've got the scarlet fever. If you have, you are likely to be taken pretty soon, I can tell you; and if you haven't, why, it's all for the best. It is a bad plan to fly in the Almighty's face that way, and tell him what he shall do and what he shan't."

This philosophic response fell unheeded on poor Beulah's ears, and Harriet was about to inquire more minutely into the cause of her grief, but she perceived her master standing beside her, and immediately moved away from the bed. Drawing out his watch, he counted the pulse several times. The result seemed to trouble him, and he stood for some minutes watching the motionless form.

"Harriet, bring me a glass of ice-water."

Laying his cool hand on the hot forehead of the suffering girl, he said tenderly:

"My child, try not to cry any more to-night. It is very bitter, I know; but remember that, though Lilly has been taken from you, from this day you have a friend, a home, a guardian."

Harriet proffered the glass of water. He took it, raised the head, and put the sparkling draught to Beulah's parched lips. Without unclosing her eyes, she drank the last crystal drop, and, laying the head back on the pillow, he drew an armchair before the window at the further end of the room, and seated himself.



CHAPTER VII.

Through quiet, woody dells roamed Beulah's spirit, and, hand in hand, she and Lilly trod flowery paths and rested beside clear, laughing brooks. Life, with its grim realities, seemed but a flying mist. The orphan hovered on the confines of eternity's ocean, and its silent waves almost laved the feet of the weary child. The room was darkened, and the summer wind stole through the blinds stealthily, as if awed by the solitude of the sick-chamber. Dr. Hartwell sat by the low French bedstead, holding one emaciated hand in his, counting the pulse which bounded so fiercely in the blue veins. A fold of white linen containing crushed ice lay on her forehead, and the hollow cheeks and thin lips were flushed to vermilion hue. It was not scarlet, but brain fever, and this was the fifth day that the sleeper had lain in a heavy stupor. Dr. Hartwell put back the hand he held, and, stooping over, looked long and anxiously at the flushed face. The breathing was deep and labored, and, turning away, he slowly and noiselessly walked up and down the floor. To have looked at him then, in his purple silk robe de chambre, one would have scarcely believed that thirty years had passed over his head. He was tall and broad-chested, his head massive and well formed, his face a curious study. The brow was expansive and almost transparent in its purity, the dark, hazel eyes were singularly brilliant, while the contour of lips and chin was partially concealed by a heavy mustache and board. The first glance at his face impressed strangers by its extreme pallor, but in a second look they were fascinated by the misty splendor of the eyes. In truth, those were strange eyes of Guy Hartwell's. At times, searching and glittering like polished steel; occasionally lighting up with a dazzling radiance, and then as suddenly growing gentle, hazy, yet luminous; resembling the clouded aspect of a star seen through a thin veil of mist. His brown, curling hair was thrown back from the face, and exposed the outline of the ample forehead. Perhaps utilitarians would have carped at the feminine delicacy of the hands, and certainly the fingers were slender and marvelously white. On one hand he wore an antique ring, composed of a cameo snake-head set round with diamonds. A proud, gifted, and miserable man was Guy Hartwell, and his characteristic expression of stern sadness might easily have been mistaken by casual observers for bitter misanthropy.

I have said he was about thirty, and though the handsome face was repellently cold and grave, it was difficult to believe that that smooth, fair brow had been for so many years uplifted for the handwriting of time. He looked just what he was, a baffling, fascinating mystery. You felt that his countenance was a volume of hieroglyphics which, could you decipher, would unfold the history of a checkered and painful career. Yet the calm, frigid smile which sat on his lip, and looked out defiantly from his deep-set eyes, seemed to dare you to an investigation. Mere physical beauty cannot impart the indescribable charm which his countenance possessed. Regularity of features is a valuable auxiliary, but we look on sculptured marble, perfect in its chiseled proportions, and feel that, after all, the potent spell is in the raying out of the soul, that imprisoned radiance which, in some instances, makes man indeed but "little lower than the angels." He paused in his echoless tread, and sat down once more beside his protegee. She had not changed her position, and the long lashes lay heavily on the crimson cheeks. The parched lips were parted, and, as he watched her, she murmured aloud:

"It is so sweet, Lilly; we will stay here always." A shadowy smile crossed her face, and then a great agony seemed to possess her, for she moaned long and bitterly. He tried to arouse her, and, for the first time since the night she entered his house, she opened her eyes and gazed vacantly at him.

"Are you in pain, Beulah? Why do you moan so?"

"Eugene, I knew it would be so, when you left me."

"Don't you know me, Beulah?" He put his face close to hers.

"They killed her, Eugene! I told you they would; they are going to bury her soon. But the grave can't hide her; I am going down with her into the darkness—she would be frightened, you know." Making a great effort, she sat upright. Dr. Hartwell put a glass containing medicine to her lips; she shrank back and shuddered, then raised her hand for the glass, and, looking fixedly at him, said: "Did Mrs. Grayson say I must take it? Is it poison that kills quickly? There; don't frown, Eugene, I will drink it all for you." She swallowed the draught with a shiver. He laid her back on her pillow and renewed the iced-cloth on her forehead; she did not move her burning eyes from his face, and the refreshing coolness recalled the sad smile. "Are we on the Alps, Eugene? I feel dizzy; don't let me fall. There is a great chasm yonder. Oh, I know now; I am not afraid; Lilly is down there—come on." Her arms drooped to her side, and she slept again.

Evening shadows crept on; soon the room was dark. Harriet entered with a shaded lamp, but her master motioned her out, and, throwing open the blinds, suffered the pure moonlight to enter freely. The window looked out on the flower garden, and the mingled fragrance of roses, jasmines, honeysuckles, and dew-laden four-o'clocks enveloped him as in a cloud of incense. A balmy moonlight June night in our beautiful sunny South—who shall adequately paint its witchery? Dr. Hartwell leaned his head against the window, and glanced down at the parterre he had so fondly fostered. The golden moonlight mellowed every object, and not the gorgeous pictures of Persian poets surpassed the quiet scene that greeted the master. The shelled serpentine walks were bordered with low, closely clipped cassina hedges; clusters of white and rose oleander, scarlet geraniums, roses of countless variety, beds of verbena of every hue, and patches of brilliant annuals, all looked up smilingly at him. Just beneath the window the clasping tendrils of a clematis were wound about the pedestal of a marble Flora, and a cluster of the delicate purple blossoms peeped through the fingers of the goddess. Further off, a fountain flashed in the moonlight, murmuring musically in and out of its reservoir, while the diamond spray bathed the sculptured limbs of a Venus. The sea breeze sang its lullaby through the boughs of a luxuriant orange tree near, and silence seemed guardian spirit of the beautiful spot, when a whip-poor-will whirred through the air, and, perching on the snowy brow of the Aphrodite, began his plaintive night-hymn. In childhood Guy Hartwell had been taught by his nurse to regard the melancholy chant as ominous of evil; but as years threw their shadows over his heart, darkening the hopes of his boyhood, the sad notes of the lonely bird became gradually soothing, and now in the prime of life he loved to listen to the shy visitor, and ceased to remember that it boded ill. With an ardent love for the beautiful, in all its Protean phases, he enjoyed communion with nature as only an imaginative, aesthetical temperament can. This keen appreciation of beauty had been fostered by travel and study. Over the vast studio of nature he had eagerly roamed; midnight had seen him gazing enraptured on the loveliness of Italian scenery, and found him watching the march of constellations from the lonely heights of the Hartz; while the thunder tones of awful Niagara had often hushed the tumults of his passionate heart, and bowed his proud head in humble adoration. He had searched the storehouses of art, and collected treasures that kindled divine aspirations in his soul, and wooed him for a time from the cemetery of memory. With a nature so intensely aesthetical, and taste so thoroughly cultivated, he had, in a great measure, assimilated his home to the artistic beau ideal. Now as he stood inhaling the perfumed air, he forgot the little sufferer a few yards off—forgot that Azrail stood on the threshold, beckoning her to brave the dark floods; and, as his whole nature became permeated (so to speak) by the intoxicating beauty that surrounded him, he extended his arms, and exclaimed triumphantly:

"Truly thou art my mother, dear old earth! I feel that I am indeed nearly allied to thy divine beauty! Starry nights, and whispering winds, and fragrant flowers! yea, and even the breath of the tempest! all, all are parts of my being."

"Guy, there is a messenger waiting at the door to see you. Some patient requires prompt attendance." Mrs. Chilton stood near the window, and the moonlight flashed over her handsome face. Her brother frowned and motioned her away, but, smiling quietly, she put her beautifully molded hand on his shoulder, and said:

"I am sorry I disturbed your meditations, but if you will practice— "

"Who sent for me?"

"I really don't know."

"Will you be good enough to inquire?"

"Certainly." She glided gracefully from the room.

The whip-poor-will flew from his marble perch, and, as the mournful tones died away, the master sighed, and returned to the bedside of his charge. He renewed the ice on her brow, and soon after his sister re-entered.

"Mr. Vincent is very sick, and you are wanted immediately."

"Very well." He crossed the room and rang the bell.

"Guy, are you sure that girl has not scarlet fever?"

"May, I have answered that question at least twice a day for nearly a week."

"But you should sympathize with a mother's anxiety. I dread to expose Pauline to danger."

"Then let her remain where she is."

"But I prefer having her come home, if I could feel assured that girl has only brain fever."

"Then, once for all, there is no scarlet fever in the house."

He took a vial from his pocket, and poured a portion of its contents into the glass, which he placed on a stand by Beulah's bed; then, turning to Harriet, who had obeyed his summons, he directed her to administer the medicine hourly.

"Guy, you may give your directions to me, for I shall stay with the child to-night." As she spoke, she seated herself at the foot of the bed.

"Harriet, hand me the candle in the hall." She did so; and, as her master took it from her hand, he said abruptly:

"Tell Hal to bring my buggy round, and then you may go to bed. I will ring if you are wanted." He waited until she was out of hearing, and, walking up to his sister, held the candle so that the light fell full upon her face.

"May, can I trust you?"

"Brother, you are cruelly unjust." She covered her face with her lace handkerchief.

"Am I, indeed?"

"Yes, you wrong me hourly, with miserable suspicions. Guy, remember that I have your blood in my veins, and it will not always tamely bear insult, even from you." She removed the handkerchief, and shook back her glossy curls, while her face grew still paler than was its wont.

"Insult! May, can the unvarnished truth be such?"

They eyed each other steadily, and it was apparent that each iron will was mated.

"Guy, you shall repent this."

"Perhaps so. You have made me repent many things."

"Do you mean to say that—"

"I mean to say, that since you have at last offered to assist in nursing that unconscious child, I wish you to give the medicine hourly. The last potion was at eight o'clock." He placed the candle so as to shade the light from the sick girl, and left the room. Mrs. Chilton sat for some time as he had left her with her head leaning on her hand, her thoughts evidently perplexed and bitter. At length she rose and stood close to Beulah, looking earnestly at her emaciated face. She put her fingers on the burning temples and wrist, and counted accurately the pulsations of the lava tide, then bent her queenly head, and listened to the heavily drawn breathing. A haughty smile lit her fine features as she said complacently: "A mere tempest in a teacup. Pshaw, this girl will not mar my projects long. By noon tomorrow she will be in eternity. I thought, the first time I saw her ghostly face, she would trouble me but a short season. What paradoxes men are! What on earth possessed Guy, with his fastidious taste, to bring to his home such an ugly, wasted, sallow little wretch? I verily believe, as a family, we are beset by evil angels." Drawing out her watch, she saw that the hand had passed nine. Raising the glass to her lips, she drank the quantity prescribed for the sufferer, and was replacing it on the stand, when Beulah's large, eloquent eyes startled her.

"Well, child, what do you want?" said she, trembling, despite her assumed indifference. Beulah looked at her vacantly, then threw her arms restlessly over the pillow, and slept again. Mrs. Chilton drew up a chair, seated herself, and sank into a reverie of some length. Ultimately she was aroused by perceiving her brother beside her, and said hastily:

"How is Mr. Vincent? Not dangerously ill, I hope!"

"Tomorrow will decide that. It is now ten minutes past ten; how many potions have you given?"

"Two," answered she firmly.

"Thank you, May. I will relieve you now. Good-night."

"But you are worn out, and I am not. Let me sit up. I will wake you if any change occurs."

"Thank you, I prefer watching tonight. Take that candle, and leave it on the table in the hall. I need nothing but moonlight. Leave the door open." As the flickering light vanished, he threw himself into the chair beside the bed.



CHAPTER VIII.

It was in the gray light of dawning day that Beulah awoke to consciousness. For some moments after unclosing her eyes they wandered inquiringly about the room, and finally rested on the tall form of the watcher, as he stood at the open window. Gradually memory gathered up its scattered links, and all the incidents of that hour of anguish rushed vividly before her. The little table, with its marble sleeper; then a dim recollection of having been carried to a friendly shelter. Was it only yesterday evening, and had she slept? The utter prostration which prevented her raising her head, and the emaciated appearance of her hands, told her "no." Too feeble even to think, she moaned audibly. Dr. Hartwell turned and looked at her. The room was still in shadow, though the eastern sky was flushed, and he stepped to the bedside. The fever had died out, the cheeks were very pale, and the unnaturally large, sunken eyes lusterless. She looked at him steadily, yet with perfect indifference. He leaned over, and said eagerly:

"Beulah, do you know me?"

"Yes; I know you."

"How do you feel this morning?"

"I am very weak, and my head seems confused. How long have I been here?"

"No matter, child, if you are better." He took out his watch, and, after counting her pulse, prepared some medicine, and gave her a potion. Her features twitched, and she asked tremblingly, as if afraid of her own question:

"Have they buried her?"

"Yes; a week ago."

She closed her eyes with a groan, and her face became convulsed; then she lay quite still, with a wrinkled brow. Dr. Hartwell sat down by her, and, taking one of her wasted little hands in his, said gently:

"Beulah, you have been very ill. I scarcely thought you would recover; and now, though much better, you must not agitate yourself, for you are far too weak to bear it."

"Why didn't you let me die? Oh, it would have been a mercy!" She put her hand over her eyes, and a low cry wailed through the room.

"Because I wanted you to get well, and live here, and be my little friend, my child. Now, Beulah, I have saved you, and you belong to me. When you are stronger we will talk about all you want to know; but to-day you must keep quiet, and not think of what distresses you. Will you try?"

The strong, stern man shuddered, as she looked up at him with an expression of hopeless desolation, and said slowly:

"I have nothing but misery to think of."

"Have you forgotten Eugene so soon?"

For an instant the eyes lighted up; then the long lashes swept her cheeks, and she murmured:

"Eugene; he has left me too; something will happen to him also. I never loved anything but trouble came upon it."

Dr. Hartwell smiled grimly, as though unconsciously she had turned to view some page in the history of his own life.

"Beulah, you must not despond; Eugene will come back an elegant young man before you are fairly out of short dresses. There, do not talk any more, and don't cry. Try to sleep, and remember, child, you are homeless and friendless no longer." He pressed her hand kindly, and turned toward the door. It opened, and Mrs. Chilton entered.

"Good-morning, Guy; how is your patient?" said she blandly.

"Good-morning, May; my little patient is much better. She has been talking to me, and I am going to send her some breakfast." He put both hands on his sister's shoulders, and looked down into her beautiful eyes. She did not flinch, but he saw a grayish hue settle around her lips.

"Ah! I thought last night there was little hope of her recovery. You are a wonderful doctor, Guy; almost equal to raising the dead." Her voice was even, and, like his own, marvelously sweet.

"More wonderful still, May; I can read the living." His mustached lip curled, as a scornful smile passed over his face.

"Read the living? Then you can understand and appreciate my pleasure at this good news. Doubly good, because it secures Pauline's return to-day. Dear child, I long to have her at home again." An expression of anxious maternal solicitude crossed her features. Her brother kept his hand on her shoulder, and as his eye fell on her glossy auburn curls, he said, half musingly:

"Time touches you daintily, May; there is not one silver footprint on your hair."

"He has dealt quite as leniently with you. But how could I feel the inroads of time, shielded as I have been by your kindness? Cares and sorrows bleach the locks oftener than accumulated years; and you, Guy, have most kindly guarded your poor widowed sister."

"Have I indeed, May?"

"Ah! what would become of my Pauline and me, but for your generosity, your—"

"Enough! Then, once for all, be kind to yonder sick child; if not for her sake, for your own. You and Pauline can aid me in making her happy, if you will. And if not, remember, May, you know my nature. Do not disturb Beulah now; come down and let her be quiet." He led her down the steps, and then, throwing open a glass door, stepped out upon a terrace covered with Bermuda grass and sparkling like a tiara in the early sunlight. Mrs. Chilton watched him descend the two white marble steps leading down to the flower beds, and, leaning against the wall, she muttered:

"It cannot be possible that that miserable beggar is to come between Pauline and his property! Is he mad, to dream of making that little outcast his heiress? Yet he meant it; I saw it in his eye; the lurking devil that has slumbered since that evening, and that I hoped would never gleam out at me again. Oh! we are a precious family. Set the will of one against another, and all Pandemonium can't crush either! Ten to one, Pauline will lose her wits too, and be as hard to manage as Guy." Moody and perplexed, she walked on to the dining room. Beulah had fallen into a heavy slumber of exhaustion, and it was late in the day when she again unclosed her eyes. Harriet sat sewing near her, but soon perceived that she was awake, and immediately put aside her work.

"Aha! so you have come to your senses again, have you? How are you, child?"

"I am weak."

"Which isn't strange, seeing that you haven't eat a teaspoonful in more than a week. Now, look here, little one; I am ordered to nurse and take charge of you till you are strong enough to look out for yourself. So you must not object to anything I tell you to do." Without further parley, she washed and wiped Beulah's face and hands, shook up the pillows, and placed her comfortably on them. To the orphan, accustomed all her life to wait upon others, there was something singularly novel in being thus carefully handled; and, nestling her head close to the pillows, she shut her eyes, lest the tears that were gathering should become visible. Harriet quitted the room for a short time, and returned with a salver containing some refreshments.

"I can't eat anything. Thank you; but take it away." Beulah put her hands over her face, but Harriet resolutely seated herself on the side of the bed, lifted her up, and put a cup of tea to the quivering lips.

"It is no use talking; master said you had to eat, and you might just as well do it at once. Poor thing! you are hiding your eyes to cry. Well, drink this tea and eat a little; you must, for folks can't live forever without eating." There was no alternative, and Beulah swallowed what was given her. Harriet praised her obedient spirit, and busied herself about the room for some time. Finally, stooping over the bed, she said abruptly:

"Honey, are you crying?"

There was no reply, and, kneeling down, she said cautiously:

"If you knew as much about this family as I do, you would cry, sure enough, for something. My master says he has adopted you, and since he has said it, everything will work for good to you. But, child, there will come times when you need a friend besides master, and be sure you come to me when you do. I won't say any more now; but remember what I tell you when you get into trouble. Miss Pauline has come, and if she happens to take a fancy to you (which I think she won't), she will stand by you till the stars fall; and if she don't, she will hate you worse than Satan himself for—" Harriet did not complete the sentence, for she detected her master's step in the passage, and resumed her work.

"How is she?"

"She did not eat much, sir, and seems so downhearted."

"That will do. I will ring when you are needed."

Dr. Hartwell seated himself on the edge of the bed, and, lifting the child's head to his bosom, drew away the hands that shaded her face.

"Beulah, are you following my directions?"

"Oh, sir! you are very kind; but I am too wretched, too miserable, even to thank you."

"I do not wish you to thank me. All I desire is that you will keep quiet for a few days, till you grow strong, and not lie here sobbing yourself into another fever. I know you have had a bitter lot in life so far, and memories are all painful with you; but it is better not to dwell upon the past. Ah, child! it is well to live only in the present, looking into the future. I promise you I will guard you, and care for you as tenderly as a father; and now, Beulah, I think you owe it to me to try to be cheerful."

He passed his fingers softly over her forehead, and put back the tangled masses of jetty hair, which long neglect had piled about her face. The touch of his cool hand, the low, musical tones of his voice, were very soothing to the weary sufferer, and, with a great effort, she looked up into the deep, dark eyes. saying brokenly:

"Oh, sir, how good you are! I am—very grateful—to you—indeed, I— "

"There, my child, do not try to talk; only trust me, and be cheerful. It is a pleasure to me to have you here, and know that you will always remain in my house."

How long he sat there, she never knew, for soon she slept, and when hours after she waked, the lamp was burning dimly, and only Harriet was in the room. A week passed, and the girl saw no one except the nurse and physician. One sunny afternoon she looped back the white curtains, and sat down before the open window. Harriet had dressed her in a blue calico wrapper, which made her wan face still more ghastly, and the folds of black hair, which the gentle fingers of the kind nurse had disentangled, lay thick about her forehead, like an ebon wreath on the brow of a statue. Her elbows rested on the arms of the easy-chair, and the weary head leaned upon the hands. Before her lay the flower garden, brilliant and fragrant; further on a row of Lombardy poplars bounded the yard, and beyond the street stretched the west common. In the distance rose a venerable brick building, set, as it were, in an emerald lawn, and Beulah looked only once, and knew it vas the asylum. It was the first time she had seen it since her exodus, and the long-sealed fountain could no longer be restrained. Great hot tears fell over the bent face, and the frail form trembled violently. For nearly fourteen years that brave spirit had battled, and borne, and tried to hope for better things. With more than ordinary fortitude, she had resigned herself to the sorrows that came thick and fast upon her, and, trusting in the eternal love and goodness of God, had looked to him for relief and reward. But the reward came not in the expected way. Hope died; faith fainted; and bitterness and despair reigned in that once loving and gentle soul. Her father had not been spared in answer to her frantic prayers. Lilly had been taken, without even the sad comfort of a farewell, and now, with the present full of anguish, and the future shrouded in dark forebodings, she sobbed aloud:

"All alone! All alone! Oh, father! Oh, Lilly, Lilly!"

"Do pray, chile, don't take on so; you will fret yourself sick again," said Harriet, compassionately patting the drooped head.

"Don't talk to me—don't speak to me!" cried Beulah passionately.

"Yes; but I was told not to let you grieve yourself to death, and you are doing your best. Why don't you put your trust in the Lord?"

"I did, and he has forgotten me."

"No, chile. He forgets not even the little snow-birds. I expect you wanted to lay down the law for him, and are not willing to wait until he sees fit to bless you. Isn't it so?"

"He never can give me back my dead."

"But he can raise up other friends for you, and he has. It is a blessed thing to have my master for a friend and a protector. Think of living always in a place like this, with plenty of money, and nothing to wish for. Chile, you don't know how lucky—"

She paused, startled by ringing' peals of laughter, which seemed to come from the adjoining passage. Sounds of mirth fell torturingly upon Beulah's bleeding spirit, and she pressed her fingers tightly over her ears. Just opposite to her sat the old trunk, which, a fortnight before, she had packed for her journey up the river. The leathern face seemed to sympathize with her woe, and, kneeling down on the floor, she wound her arms caressingly over it.

"Bless the girl! she hugs that ugly, old-fashioned thing as if it were kin to her," said Harriet, who sat sewing at one of the windows.

Beulah raised the lid, and there lay her clothes, the books Eugene had given her; two or three faded, worn-out garments of Lilly's, and an old Bible. The tears froze in her eyes, as she took out the last, and opened it at the ribbon mark. These words greeted her: "Whom the Lord loveth, he chasteneth." Again and again she read them, and the crushed tendrils of trust feebly twined once more about the promise. As she sat there, wondering why suffering and sorrow always fell on those whom the Bible calls "blessed," and trying to explain the paradox, the door was thrown rudely open, and a girl about her own age sprang into the room, quickly followed by Mrs. Chilton.

"Let me alone, mother. I tell you I mean to see her, and then you are welcome to me as long as you please. Ah, is that her?"

The speaker paused in the center of the apartment, and gazed curiously at the figure seated before the old trunk. Involuntarily Beulah raised her eyes, and met the searching look fixed upon her. The intruder was richly dressed, and her very posture bespoke the lawless independence of a willful, petted child. The figure was faultlessly symmetrical, and her face radiantly beautiful. The features were clearly cut and regular, the eyes of deep, dark violet hue, shaded by curling brown lashes. Her chestnut hair was thrown back with a silver comb, and fell in thick curls below the waist; her complexion was of alabaster clearness, and cheeks and lips wore the coral bloom of health. As they confronted each other one looked a Hebe, the other a ghostly visitant from spirit realms. Beulah shrank from the eager scrutiny, and put up her hands to shield her face. The other advanced a few steps, and stood beside her. The expression of curiosity faded, and something like compassion swept over the stranger's features, as she noted the thin, drooping form of the invalid. Her lips parted, and she put out her hand, as if to address Beulah, when Mrs. Chilton exclaimed impatiently:

"Pauline, come down this instant! Your uncle positively forbade your entering this room until he gave you permission. There is his buggy this minute! Come out, I say!" She laid her hand in no gentle manner on her daughter's arm.

"Oh, sink the buggy! What do I care if he does catch me here? I shall stay till I make up my mind whether that little thing is a ghost or not. So, mother, let me alone." She shook off the clasping hand that sought to drag her away, and again fixed her attention on Beulah.

"Willful girl! you will ruin everything yet. Pauline, follow me instantly, I command you!" She was white with rage, but the daughter gave no intimation of having heard the words; and, throwing her arm about the girl's waist, Mrs. Chilton dragged her to the door. There was a brief struggle at the threshold, and then both stood quiet before the master of the house.

"What is all this confusion about? I ordered this portion of the house kept silent, did I not?"

"Yes, Guy; and I hope you will forgive Pauline's thoughtlessness. She blundered in here, and I have just been scolding her for disobeying your injunctions."

"Uncle Guy, it was not thoughtlessness, at all; I came on purpose. For a week I have been nearly dying with curiosity to see that little skeleton you have shut up here, and I ran up to get a glimpse of her. I don't see the harm of it; I haven't hurt her." Pauline looked fearlessly up in her uncle's face, and planted herself firmly in the door, as if resolved not to be ejected.

"Does this house belong to you or to me, Pauline?"

"To you, now; to me, some of these days, when you give it to me for a bridal present."

His brow cleared, he looked kindly down into the frank, truthful countenance, and said, with a half-smile:

"Do not repeat your voyage of discovery, or perhaps your bridal anticipations may prove an egregious failure. Do you understand me?"

"I have not finished the first. Mother played pirate, and carried me off before I was half satisfied. Uncle Guy, take me under your flag, do! I will not worry the little thing—I promise you I will not. Can't I stay here a while?" He smiled, and put his hand on her head, saying:

"I am inclined to try you. May, you can leave her here. I will send her to you after a little." As he spoke, he drew her up to the orphan. Beulah looked at them an instant, then averted her head.

"Beulah, this is my niece, Pauline Chilton; and, Pauline, this is my adopted child, Beulah Benton. You are about the same age, and can make each other happy, if you will. Beulah, shake hands with my niece." She put up her pale, slender fingers, and they were promptly clasped in Pauline's plump palm.

"Do stop crying, and look at me. I want to see you," said the latter.

"I am not crying."

"Then what are you hiding your face for?"

"Because it is so ugly," answered the orphan sadly.

Pauline stooped down, took the head in her hands, and turned the features to view. She gave them a searching examination, and then, looking up at her uncle, said bluntly:

"She is not pretty, that is a fact; but, somehow, I rather like her. If she did not look so doleful, and had some blood in her lips, she would pass well enough; don't you think so?"

Dr. Hartwell did not reply; but, raising Beulah from the floor, placed her in the chair she had vacated some time before. She did, indeed, look "doleful," as Pauline expressed it, and the beaming, lovely face of the latter rendered her wan aspect more apparent.

"What have you been doing all day?" said the doctor kindly.

She pointed to the asylum, and answered in a low, subdued tone:

"Thinking about my past life—all my misfortunes."

"You promised you would do so no more."

"Ah, sir! how can I help it?"

"Why, think of something pleasant, of course," interrupted Pauline.

"You never had any sorrows; you know nothing of suffering," replied Beulah, allowing her eyes to dwell on the fine, open countenance before her—a mirthful, sunny face, where waves of grief had never rippled.

"How came you so wise? I have troubles sometimes, just like everbody else."

Beulah shook her head dubiously.

"Pauline, will you try to cheer this sad little stranger? will you be always kind in your manner, and remember that her life has not been as happy as yours? Can't you love her?"

She shrugged her shoulders, and answered evasively:

"I dare say we will get on well enough, if she will only quit looking so dismal and graveyardish. I don't know about loving her; we shall see."

"You can go down to your mother now," said he gravely.

"That means you are tired of me, Uncle Guy!" cried she, saucily shaking her curls over her face.

"Yes, heartily tired of you; take yourself off."

"Good-by, shadow; I shall come to see you again to-morrow." She reached the door, but looked back.

"Uncle, have you seen Charon since you came home?"

"No."

"Well, he will die if you don't do something for him. It is a shame to forget him as you do!" said she indignantly.

"Attend to your own affairs, and do not interfere with mine."

"It is high time somebody interfered. Poor Charon! If Hal doesn't take better care of him, I will make his mother box his ears; see if I don't."

She bounded down the steps, leaving her uncle to smooth his brow at leisure. Turning to Beulah, he took her hand, and said very kindly:

"This large room does not suit you. Come, and I will show you your own little room—one I have had arranged for you." She silently complied, and, leading her through several passages, he opened the door of the apartment assigned her. The walls were covered with blue and silver paper; the window curtains of white, faced with blue, matched it well, and every article of furniture bespoke lavish and tasteful expenditure. There was a small writing-desk near a handsome case of books, and a little work-table with a rocking-chair drawn up to it. He seated Beulah, and stood watching her, as her eyes wandered curiously and admiringly around the room. They rested on a painting suspended over the desk, and, wrapt in contemplating the design, she forgot for a moment all her sorrows. It represented an angelic figure winging its way over a valley beclouded and dismal, and pointing, with a radiant countenance, to the gilded summit of a distant steep. Below, bands of pilgrims, weary and worn, toiled on; some fainting by the wayside, some seated in sullen despair, some in the attitude of prayer, some pressing forward with strained gaze and pale, haggard faces.

"Do you like it?" said Dr. Hartwell.

Perhaps she did not hear him; certainly she did not heed the question; and, taking a seat near one of the windows, he regarded her earnestly. Her eyes were fastened on the picture, and, raising her hands toward it, she said in broken, indistinct tones:

"I am dying down in the dark valley; oh, come, help me to toil on to the resting-place."

Her head sank upon her bosom, and bitter waves lashed her heart once more.

Gradually evening shadows crept on, and at length a soft hand lifted her face, and a musical voice said:

"Beulah, I want you to come down to my study and make my tea. Do you feel strong enough?"

"Yes, sir." She rose at once and followed him, resolved to seem cheerful.

The study was an oblong room, and on one side book-shelves rose almost to the ceiling. The opposite wall, between the windows, was covered with paintings, and several statues stood in the recesses near the chimney. Over the low marble mantelpiece hung a full-length portrait, shrouded with black crape, and underneath was an exquisitely chased silver case, containing a small Swiss clock. A beautiful terra-cotta vase, of antique shape, stood on the hearth, filled with choice and fragrant flowers, and near the window sat an elegant rosewood melodeon. A circular table occupied the middle of the room, and here the evening meal was already arranged. Beulah glanced timidly around as her conductor seated her beside the urn, and, seeing only cups for two persons, asked hesitatingly:

"Shall I make your tea now?"

"Yes; and remember, Beulah, I shall expect you to make it every evening at this hour. Breakfast and dinner I take with my sister and Pauline in the dining room, but my evenings are always spent here. There, make another cup for yourself."

A long silence ensued. Dr. Hartwell seemed lost in reverie, for he sat with his eyes fixed on the tablecloth, and his head resting on his hand. His features resumed their habitual expression of stern rigidity, and as Beulah looked at him she could scarcely believe that he was the same kind friend who had been so gentle and fatherly in his manner. Intuitively she felt then that she had to deal with a chaotic, passionate, and moody nature, and, as she marked the knitting of his brows and the iron compression of his lips, her heart was haunted by grave forebodings. While she sat pondering his haughty, impenetrable appearance, a servant entered.

"Sir, there is a messenger at the door."

His master started slightly, pushed away his cup, and said:

"Is the buggy ready?"

"Yes, sir; waiting at the door—"

"Very well; I am coming."

The windows opened down to the floor, and led into a vine-covered piazza. He stepped up to one and stood a moment, as if loath to quit his sanctum; then, turning round, addressed Beulah:

"Ah, child, I had almost forgotten you. It is time you were asleep. Do you know the way back to your room?"

"I can find it," said she, rising from the table.

"Good-night; let me see you at breakfast if you feel strong enough to join us."

He opened the door for her, and, hurrying out, Beulah found her own room without difficulty. Walking up to Harriet, whom she saw waiting for her, she said in a grave, determined manner:

"You have been very kind to me since I came here, and I feel grateful to you; but I have not been accustomed to have someone always waiting on me, and in future I shall not want you. I can dress myself without any assistance, so you need not come to me night and morning."

"I am obeying master's orders. He said I was to 'tend to you," answered Harriet, wondering at the independent spirit evinced by the newcomer.

"I do not want any tending, so you may leave me, if you please."

"Haven't you been here long enough to find out that you might as well fight the waves of the sea as my master's will? Take care, child, how you begin to countermand his orders, for I tell you now there are some in this house who will soon make it a handle to turn you out into the world again. Mind what I say."

"Do you mean that I am not wanted here?"

"I mean, keep your eyes open." Harriet vanished in the dark passage, and Beulah locked the door, feeling that now she was indeed alone, and could freely indulge the grief that had so long sought to veil itself from curious eyes. Yet there was no disposition to cry. She sat down on the bed and mused on the strange freak of fortune which had so suddenly elevated the humble nurse into the possessor of that elegantly furnished apartment. There was no elation in the quiet wonder with which she surveyed the change in her position. She did not belong there, she had no claim on the master of the house, and she felt that she was trespassing on the rights of the beautiful Pauline. Rapidly plans for the future were written in firm resolve. She would thankfully remain under the roof that had so kindly sheltered her, until she could qualify herself to teach. She would ask Dr. Hartwell to give her an education, which, once obtained, would enable her to repay its price. To her proud nature there was something galling in the thought of dependence, and, throwing herself on her knees for the first time in several weeks, she earnestly besought the God of orphans to guide and assist her.



CHAPTER IX.

"Do you wish her to commence school at once?"

"Not until her wardrobe has been replenished. I expect her clothes to be selected and made just as Pauline's are. Will you attend to this business, or shall I give directions to Harriet?"

"Certainly, Guy; I can easily arrange it. You intend to dress her just as I do Pauline?"

"As nearly as possible. Next week I wish her to begin school with Pauline, and Hansell will give her music lessons. Be so good as to see about her clothes immediately."

Dr. Hartwell drew on his gloves and left the room. His sister followed him to the door, where his buggy awaited him.

"Guy, did you determine about that little affair for Pauline? She has so set her heart on it."

"Oh, do as you please, May; only I am—"

"Stop, Uncle Guy! Wait a minute. May I have a birthday party? May I?" Almost out of breath, Pauline ran up the steps; her long hair floating over her face, which exercise had flushed to crimson.

"You young tornado! Look how you have crushed that cluster of heliotrope, rushing over the flower-beds as if there were no walks." He pointed with the end of his whip to a drooping spray of purple blossoms.

"Yes; but there are plenty more. I say, may I?—may I?" She eagerly caught hold of his coat.

"How long before your birthday?"

"Just a week from to-day. Do, please, let me have a frolic!"

"Poor child! you look as if you needed some relaxation," said he, looking down into her radiant face, with an expression of mock compassion.

"Upon my word, Uncle Guy, it is awfully dull here. If it were not for Charon and Mazeppa I should be moped to death. Do, pray, don't look at me as if you were counting the hairs in my eyelashes. Come, say yes: do, Uncle Guy."

"Take your hands off of my coat, and have as many parties as you like, provided you keep to your own side of the house. Don't come near my study with your Babel, and don't allow your company to demolish my flowers. Mind, not a soul is to enter the greenhouse. The parlors are at your service, but I will not have a regiment of wildcats tearing up and down my greenhouse and flower garden; mind that." He stepped into his buggy.

"Bravo! I have won my wager, and got the party too! Hugh Cluis bet me a papier-mache writing-desk that you would not give me a party. When I send his invitation I will write on the envelope 'the writing-desk is also expected.' Hey, shadow, where did you creep from?" She fixed her merry eyes on Beulah, who just then appeared on the terrace. Dr. Hartwell leaned from the buggy, and looked earnestly at the quiet little figure.

"Do you want anything, Beulah?"

"No, sir; I thought you had gone. May I open the gate for you?"

"Certainly, if you wish to do something for me." His pale features relaxed, and his whole face lighted up, like a sun-flushed cloud.

Beulah walked down the avenue, lined on either side with venerable poplars and cedars, and opened the large gate leading into the city. He checked his horse, and said:

"Thank you, my child. Now, how are you going to spend the day? Remember you commence with school duties next week; so make the best of your holiday."

"I have enough to occupy me to-day. Good-by, sir."

"Good-by, for an hour or so." He smiled kindly and drove on, while she walked slowly back to the house, wondering why smiles were such rare things in this world, when they cost so little, and yet are so very valuable to mourning hearts. Pauline sat on the steps with an open book in her hand. She looked up as Beulah approached, and exclaimed gayly:

"Aren't you glad I am to have my birthday frolic?"

"Yes; I am glad on your account," answered Beulah gravely.

"Can you dance all the fancy dances? I don't like any so well as the mazourka."

"I do not dance at all."

"Don't dance! Why, I have danced ever since I was big enough to crawl! What have you been doing all your life, that you don't know how to dance?"

"My feet have had other work to do," replied her companion; and, as the recollections of her early childhood flitted before her, the brow darkened.

"I suppose that is one reason you look so forlorn all the time. I will ask Uncle Guy to send you to the dancing school for—"

"Pauline, it is school-time, and you don't know one word of that Quackenbos; I would be ashamed to start from home as ignorant of my lessons as you are." Mrs. Chilton's head was projected from the parlor window, and the rebuke was delivered in no very gentle tone.

"Oh, I don't mind it at all; I have got used to it," answered the daughter, tossing up the book as she spoke.

"Get ready for school this minute!"

Pauline scampered into the house for her bonnet and sachel; and, fixing her eyes upon Beulah, Mrs. Chilton asked sternly:

"What are you doing out there? What did you follow my brother to the gate for? Answer me!"

"I merely opened the gate for him," replied the girl, looking steadily up at the searching eyes.

"There was a servant with him to do that. In future don't make yourself so conspicuous. You must keep away from the flower beds too. The doctor wishes no one prowling about them; he gave particular directions that no one should go there in his absence."

They eyed each other an instant; then, drawing up her slender form to its utmost height, Beulah replied proudly:

"Be assured, madam, I shall not trespass on forbidden ground!"

"Very well." The lace curtains swept back to their place—the fair face was withdrawn.

"She hates me," thought Beulah, walking on to her own room; "she hates me, and certainly I do not love her. I shall like Pauline very much, but her mother and I never will get on smoothly. What freezing eyes she has, and what a disagreeable look there is about her mouth whenever she sees me! She wishes me to remember all the time that I am poor, and that she is the mistress of this elegant house. Ah, I am not likely to forget it!" The old smile of bitterness crossed her face.

The days passed swiftly. Beulah spent most of her time in her own room, for Dr. Hartwell was sometimes absent all day, and she longed to escape his sister's icy espionage. When he was at home, and not engaged in his study, his manner was always kind and considerate; but she fancied he was colder and graver, and often his stern abstraction kept her silent when they were together. Monday was the birthday, and on Monday morning she expected to start to school. Madam St. Cymon's was the fashionable institution of the city, and thither, with Pauline, she was destined. Beulah rose early, dressed herself carefully, and, after reading a chapter in her Bible, and asking God's special guidance through the day, descended to the breakfast room. Dr. Hartwell sat reading a newspaper; he did not look up, and she quietly seated herself unobserved. Presently Mrs. Chilton entered and walked up to her brother.

"Good-morning, Guy. Are there no tidings of that vessel yet? I hear the Grahams are terribly anxious about it. Cornelia said her father was unable to sleep."

"No news yet; but, May, be sure you do not let—"

"Was it the 'Morning Star'? Is he lost?"

Beulah stood crouching at his side, with her hands extended pleadingly, and her white face convulsed.

"My child, do not look so wretched; the vessel that Eugene sailed in was disabled in a storm, and has not yet reached the place of destination. But there are numerous ways of accounting for the detention, and you must hope and believe that all is well until you know the contrary." He drew her to his side, and stroked her head compassionately.

"I knew it would be so," said she, in a strangely subdued, passionless tone.

"What do you mean, child?"

"Death and trouble come on everything I love."

"Perhaps at this very moment Eugene may be writing you an account of his voyage. I believe that we shall soon hear of his safe arrival. You need not dive down into my eyes in that way. I do believe it, for the vessel was seen after the storm, and, though far out of the right track, there is good reason to suppose she has put into some port to be repaired."

Beulah clasped her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out some horrid phantom, and, while her heart seemed dying on the rack, she resolved not to despair till the certainty came.

"Time enough when there is no hope; I will not go out to meet sorrow." With a sudden, inexplicable revulsion of feeling she sank on her knees, and there beside her protector vehemently prayed Almighty God to guard and guide the tempest-tossed loved one. If her eyes had rested on the face of Deity, and she had felt his presence, her petition could not have been more importunately preferred. For a few moments Dr. Hartwell regarded her curiously; then his brow darkened, his lips curled sneeringly, and a mocking smile passed over his face. Mrs. Chilton smiled, too, but there was a peculiar gleam in her eyes, and an uplifting of her brows which denoted anything but pleasurable emotions. She moved away, and sat down at the head of the table. Dr. Hartwell put his hand on the shoulder of the kneeling girl, and asked, rather abruptly:

"Beulah, do you believe that the God you pray to hears you?"

"I do. He has promised to answer prayer."

"Then, get up and be satisfied, and eat your breakfast. You have asked him to save and protect Eugene, and, according to the Bible, He will certainly do it; so no more tears. If you believe in your God, what are you looking so wretched about?" There was something in all this that startled Beulah, and she looked up at him. His chilly smile pained her, and she rose quickly, while again and again his words rang in her ear. Yet, what was there so strange about this application of faith? True, the Bible declared that "whatsoever ye ask, believing, that ye shall receive," yet she had often prayed for blessings, and often been denied. Was it because she had not had the requisite faith, which should have satisfied her? Yet God knew that she had trusted him. With innate quickness of perception, she detected the tissued veil of irony which the doctor had wrapped about his attempted consolation, and she looked at him so intently, so piercingly, that he hastily turned away and seated himself at the table. Just then Pauline bounded into the room, exclaiming:

"Fourteen to-day! Only three more years at school, and then I shall step out a brilliant young lady, the—"

"There; be quiet; sit down. I would almost as soon select a small whirlwind for a companion. Can't you learn to enter a room without blustering like a March wind or a Texan norther?" asked her uncle.

"Have you all seen a ghost? You look as solemn as grave-diggers. What ails you, Beulah? Come along to breakfast. How nice you look in your new clothes!" Her eyes ran over the face and form of the orphan.

"Pauline, hush! and eat your breakfast. You annoy your uncle," said her mother severely.

"Oh, do, for gracious' sake, let me talk! I feel sometimes as if I should suffocate. Everything about this house is so demure, and silent, and solemn, and Quakerish, and hatefully prim. If ever I have a house of my own, I mean to paste in great letters over the doors and windows, 'Laughing and talking freely allowed!' This is my birthday, and I think I might stay at home. Mother, don't forget to have the ends of my sash fringed, and the tops of my gloves trimmed." Draining her small china cup, she sprang up from the table, but paused beside Beulah.

"By the by, what are you going to wear to-night, Beulah?"

"I shall not go into the parlors at all," answered the latter.

"Why not?" said Dr. Hartwell, looking suddenly up. He met the sad, suffering expression of the gray eyes, and bit his lip with vexation. She saw that he understood her feelings, and made no reply.

"I shall not like it, if you don't come to my party," said Pauline slowly; and as she spoke she took one of the orphan's hands.

"You are very kind, Pauline; but I do not wish to see strangers."

"But you never will know anybody if you make such a nun of yourself. Uncle Guy, tell her she must come down into the parlors to-night."

"Not unless she wishes to do so. But, Pauline, I am very glad that you have shown her you desire her presence." He put his hand on her curly head, and looked with more than usual affection at the bright, honest face.

"Beulah, you must get ready for school. Come down as soon as you can. Pauline will be waiting for you." Mrs. Chilton spoke in the calm, sweet tone peculiar to her and her brother, but to Beulah there was something repulsive in that even voice, and she hurried from the sound of it. Kneeling beside her bed, she again implored the Father to restore Eugene to her, and, crushing her grief and apprehension down into her heart, she resolved to veil it from strangers. As she walked on by Pauline's side, only the excessive paleness of her face and drooping of her eyelashes betokened her suffering.

Entering school is always a disagreeable ordeal, and to a sensitive nature, such as Beulah's, it was torturing. Madam St. Cymon was a good-natured, kind, little body, and received her with a warmth and cordiality which made amends in some degree for the battery of eyes she was forced to encounter.

"Ah, yes! the doctor called to see me about you—wants you to take the Latin course. For the present, my dear, you will sit with Miss Sanders. Clara, take this young lady with you."

The girl addressed looked at least sixteen years of age, and, rising promptly, she come forward and led Beulah to a seat at her desk, which was constructed for two persons. The touch of her fingers sent a thrill through Beulah's frame, and she looked at her very earnestly.

Clara Sanders was not a beauty in the ordinary acceptation of the term, but there was an expression of angelic sweetness and purity in her countenance which fascinated the orphan. She remarked the scrutiny of the young stranger, and, smiling good-humoredly, said, as she leaned over and arranged the desk:

"I am glad to have you with me, and dare say we shall get on very nicely together. You look ill."

"I have been ill recently and have not yet regained my strength. Can you tell me where I can find some water? I feel rather faint."

Her companion brought her a glass of water. She drank it eagerly, and, as Clara resumed her seat, said in a low voice:

"Oh, thank you! You are very kind."

"Not at all. If you feel worse you must let me know." She turned to her books and soon forgot the presence of the newcomer.

The latter watched her, and noticed now that she was dressed in deep mourning. Was she too an orphan, and had this circumstance rendered her so kindly sympathetic? The sweet, gentle face, with its soft, brown eyes, chained her attention, and in the shaping of the mouth there was something very like Lilly's. Soon Clara left her for recitation, and then she turned to the new books which madam had sent to her desk. Thus passed the morning, and she started when the recess bell rang its summons through the long room. Bustle, chatter, and confusion ensued. Pauline called to her to come into lunchroom, and touched her little basket as she spoke, but Beulah shook her head and kept her seat. Clara also remained.

"Pauline is calling you," said she gently.

"Yes, I hear; but I do not want anything." And Beulah rested her head on her hands.

"Don't you feel better than you did this morning?"

"Oh, I am well enough in body; a little weak, that is all."

"You look quite tired. Suppose you lean your head against me and take a short nap?"

"You are very good indeed; but I am not at all sleepy."

Clara was engaged in drawing, and, looking on, Beulah became interested in the progress of the sketch. Suddenly a hand was placed over the paper, and a tall, handsome girl, with black eyes and sallow complexion, exclaimed sharply:

"For Heaven's sake, Clara Sanders, do you expect to swim into the next world on a piece of drawing-paper? Come over to my seat and work out that eighth problem for me. I have puzzled over it all the morning, and can't get it right."

"I can show you here quite as well." Taking out her Euclid, she found and explained the obstinate problem.

"Thank you! I cannot endure mathematics, but father is bent upon my being 'thorough,' as he calls it. I think it is all thorough nonsense. Now, with you it is very different; you expect to be a teacher, and of course will have to acquire all these branches; but for my part I see no use in it. I shall be rejoiced when this dull school-work is over."

"Don't say that, Cornelia; I think our school days are the happiest, and feel sad when I remember that mine are numbered."

Here the bell announced recess over, and Cornelia moved away to her seat. A trembling hand sought Clara's arm.

"Is that Cornelia Graham?"

"Yes. Is she not very handsome?"

Beulah made no answer; she only remembered that this girl was Eugene's adopted sister, and, looking after the tall, queenly form, she longed to follow her and ask all the particulars of the storm. Thus ended the first dreaded day at school, and, on reaching home, Beulah threw herself on her bed with a low, wailing cry. The long- pent sorrow must have vent, and she sobbed until weariness sank her into a heavy sleep.

Far out in a billowy sea, strewed with wrecks, and hideous with the ghastly, upturned faces of floating corpses, she and Eugene were drifting—now clinging to each other—now tossed asunder by howling waves. Then came a glimmering sail on the wide waste of waters; a little boat neared them, and Lilly leaned over the side and held out tiny, dimpled hands to lift them in. They were climbing out of their watery graves, and Lilly's long, fair curls already touched their cheeks, when a strong arm snatched Lilly back, and struck them down into the roaring gulf, and above the white faces of the drifting dead stood Mrs. Grayson, sailing away with Lilly struggling in her arms. Eugene was sinking and Beulah could not reach him; he held up his arms imploringly toward her, and called upon her to save him, and then his head with its wealth of silken, brown locks disappeared. She ceased to struggle; she welcomed drowning now that he had gone to rest among coral temples. She sank down—down. The rigid corpses were no longer visible. She was in an emerald palace, and myriads of rosy shells paved the floors. At last she found Eugene reposing on a coral bank, and playing with pearls; she hastened to join him, and was just taking his hand when a horrible phantom, seizing him in its arms, bore him away, and, looking in its face, she saw that it was Mrs. Chilton. With a wild scream of terror, Beulah awoke. She was lying across the foot of the bed, and both hands were thrown up, grasping the post convulsively. The room was dark, save where the moonlight crept through the curtains and fell slantingly on the picture of Hope and the Pilgrims, and by that dim light she saw a tall form standing near her.

"Were you dreaming, Beulah, that you shrieked so wildly?"

The doctor lifted her up, and leaned her head against his shoulder.

"Oh, Dr. Hartwell, I have had a horrible, horrible dream!" She shuddered, and clung to him tightly, as if dreading it might still prove a reality.

"Poor child! Come with me, and I will try to exorcise this evil spirit which haunts even your slumbers."

Keeping her hand in his, he led her down to his study, and seated her on a couch drawn near the window. The confused sound of many voices and the tread of dancing feet, keeping time to a band of music, came indistinctly from the parlors. Dr. Hartwell closed the door, to shut out the unwelcome sounds, and, seating himself before the melodeon, poured a flood of soothing, plaintive melody upon the air. Beulah sat entranced, while he played on and on, as if unconscious of her presence. Her whole being was inexpressibly thrilled; and, forgetting her frightful vision, her enraptured soul hovered on the very confines of fabled elysium. Sliding from the couch, upon her knees, she remained with her clasped hands pressed over her heart, only conscious of her trembling delight. Once or twice before she had felt thus, in watching a gorgeous sunset in the old pine grove; and now, as the musician seemed to play upon her heart-strings, calling thence unearthly tones, the tears rolled swiftly over her face. Images of divine beauty filled her soul, and nobler aspirations than she had ever known took possession of her. Soon the tears ceased, the face became calm, singularly calm; then lighted with an expression which nothing earthly could have kindled. It was the look of one whose spirit, escaping from gross bondage, soared into realms divine, and proclaimed itself God-born. Dr. Hartwell was watching her countenance, and, as the expression of indescribable joy and triumph flashed over it, he involuntarily paused. She waited till the last deep echoing tone died away, and then, approaching him, as he still sat before the instrument, she laid her hand on his knee, and said slowly:

"Oh, thank you! I can bear anything now."

"Can you explain to me how the music strengthened you? Try, will you?"

She mused for some moments, and answered thoughtfully:

"First, it made me forget the pain of my dream; then it caused me to think of the wonderful power which created music; and then, from remembering the infinite love and wisdom of the Creator, who has given man the power to call out this music, I thought how very noble man was, and what he was capable of doing; and, at last, I was glad because God has given me some of these powers; and, though I am ugly, and have been afflicted in losing my dear loved ones, yet I was made for God's glory in some way, and am yet to be shown the work he has laid out for me to do. Oh, sir! I can't explain it all to you, but I do know that God will prove to me that 'He doeth all things well.'"

She looked gravely up into the face beside her, and sought to read its baffling characters. He had leaned his elbow on the melodeon, and his wax-like fingers were thrust through his hair. His brow was smooth, and his mouth at rest, but the dark eyes, with their melancholy splendor, looked down at her moodily. They met her gaze steadily; and then she saw into the misty depths, and a shudder crept over her, as she fell on her knees, and said shiveringly:

"Oh, sir, can it be?"

He put his hand on her head, and asked quietly:

"Can what be, child?"

"Have you no God?"

His face grew whiter than was his wont. A scowl of bitterness settled on it, and the eyes burned with an almost unearthly brilliance, as he rose and walked away. For some time he stood before the window, with his arms folded; and, laying her head on the stool of the melodeon, Beulah knelt just as he left her It has been said, "Who can refute a sneer?" Rather ask, Who can compute its ruinous effects. To that kneeling figure came the thought, "If he, surrounded by wealth and friends, and blessings, cannot believe in God, what cause have I, poor, wretched, and lonely, to have faith in him?" The bare suggestion of the doubt stamped it on her memory, yet she shrank with horror from the idea, and an eager, voiceless prayer ascended from her heart that she might be shielded from such temptations in future. Dr. Hartwell touched her, and said, in his usual low, musical tones:

"It is time you were asleep. Do not indulge in any more horrible dreams, if you please. Good-night, Beulah. Whenever you feel that you would like to have some music, do not hesitate to ask me for it."

He held open the door for her to pass out. She longed to ask him what he lived for, if eternity had no joys for him; but, looking in his pale face, she saw from the lips and eyes that he would not suffer any questioning, and, awed by the expression of his countenance, she said "Good-night," and hurried away. The merry hum of childish voices again fell on her ear, and as she ascended the steps a bevy of white-clad girls emerged from a room near, and walked on just below her. Pauline's party was at its height. Beulah looked down on the fairy gossamer robes, and gayly tripping girls, and then hastened to her own room, while the thought presented itself:

"Why are things divided so unequally in this world? Why do some have all of joy, and some only sorrow's brimming cup to drain?" But the sweet voice of Faith answered, "What I do, thou knowest not now, but thou shalt know hereafter," and, trusting the promise, she was content to wait.



CHAPTER X.

"Cornelia Graham, I want to know why you did not come to my party. You might at least have honored me with an excuse." Such was Pauline's salutation, the following day, when the girls gathered in groups about the schoolroom.

"Why, Pauline, I did send an excuse; but it was addressed to your mother, and probably she forgot to mention it. You must acquit me of any such rudeness."

"Well, but why didn't you come? We had a glorious time. I have half a mind not to tell you what I heard said of you, but I believe you may have it second-hand. Fred Vincent was as grum as a preacher all the evening, and when I asked him what on earth made him so surly and owlish, he said, 'It was too provoking you would not come, for no one else could dance the schottisch to his liking.' Now there was a sweet specimen of manners for you! You had better teach your beau politeness."

Cornelia was leaning listlessly against Clara's desk, and Beulah fancied she looked very sad and abstracted. She colored at the jest, and answered contemptuously:

"He is no beau of mine, let me tell you; and as for manners, I commend him to your merciful tuition."

"But what was your excuse?" persisted Pauline.

"I should think you might conjecture that I felt no inclination to go to parties and dance when you know that we are all so anxious about my brother."

"Oh, I did not think of that!" cried the heedless girl, and quite as heedlessly she continued:

"I want to see that brother of yours. Uncle Guy says he is the handsomest boy in the city, and promises to make something extraordinary. Is he so very handsome?"

"Yes." The proud lip trembled.

"I heard Anne Vernon say she liked him better than all her other beaux, and that is great praise, coming from her queenship," said Emily Wood, who stood near.

Cornelia's eyes dilated angrily, as she answered with curling lips:

"Eugene one of her beaux! It is no such thing."

"You need not look so insulted. I suppose if the matter is such a delicate one with you, Anne will withdraw her claim," sneered Emily, happy in the opportunity afforded of wounding the haughty spirit whom all feared and few sympathized with.

Cornelia was about to retort, but madam's voice prevented, as, leaning from the platform opposite, she held out a note, and said:

"Miss Graham, a servant has just brought this for you."

The girl's face flushed and paled alternately, as she received the note and broke the seal with trembling fingers. Glancing over the contents, her countenance became irradiated, and she exclaimed joyfully:

"Good news! The 'Morning Star' has arrived at Amsterdam. Eugene is safe in Germany."

Beulah's head went down on her desk, and just audible were the words:

"My Father in Heaven, I thank thee!"

Only Clara and Cornelia heard the broken accents, and they looked curiously at the bowed figure, quivering with joy.

"Ah! I understand; this is the asylum Beulah I have often heard him speak of. I had almost forgotten the circumstance. You knew him very well, I suppose?" said Cornelia, addressing herself to the orphan, and crumpling the note between her fingers, while her eyes ran with haughty scrutiny over the dress and features before her.

"Yes, I knew him very well." Beulah felt the blood come into her cheeks, and she ill brooked the cold, searching look bent upon her.

"You are the same girl that he asked my father to send to the public school. How came you here?"

A pair of dark gray eyes met Cornelia's gaze, and seemed to answer defiantly, "What is it to you?"

"Has Dr. Hartwell adopted you? Pauline said so, but she is so heedless that I scarcely believed her, particularly when it seemed so very improbable."

"Hush, Cornelia! Why, you need Pauline's tuition about as much as Fred Vincent, I am disposed to think. Don't be so inquisitive; it pains her," remonstrated Clara, laying her arm around Beulah's shoulder as she spoke.

"Nonsense! She is not so fastidious, I will warrant. At least, she might answer civil questions."

"I always do," said Beulah.

Cornelia smiled derisively, and turned off, with the parting taunt:

"It is a mystery to me what Eugene can see in such a homely, unpolished specimen. He pities her, I suppose."

Clara felt a long shiver creep over the slight form, and saw the ashen hue that settled on her face, as if some painful wound had been inflicted. Stooping down, she whispered:

"Don't let it trouble you. Cornelia is hasty, but she is generous, too, and will repent her rudeness. She did not intend to pain you; it is only her abrupt way of expressing herself."

Beulah raised her head, and, putting back the locks of hair that had fallen over her brow, replied coldly:

"It is nothing new; I am accustomed to such treatment. Only professing to love Eugene I did not expect her to insult one whom he had commissioned her to assist, or at least sympathize with."

"Remember, Beulah, she is an only child, and her father's idol, and perhaps—"

"The very blessings that surround her should teach her to feel for the unfortunate and unprotected," interrupted the orphan.

"You will find that prosperity rarely has such an effect upon the heart of its favorite," answered Clara musingly.

"An unnecessary piece of information. I discovered that pleasant truth some time since," said Beulah bitterly.

"I don't know, Beulah; you are an instance to the contrary. Do not call yourself unfortunate, so long as Dr. Hartwell is your friend. Ah! you little dream how blessed you are."

Her voice took the deep tone of intense feeling, and a faint glow tinged her cheek.

"Yes, he is very kind, very good," replied the other, more gently.

"Kind! good! Is that all you can say of him?" The soft brown eyes kindled with unwonted enthusiasm.

"What more can I say of him than that he is good?" returned the orphan eagerly, while the conversation in the study, the preceding day, rushed to her recollection.

Clara looked at her earnestly for a moment, and then averting her head, answered evasively:

"Pardon me; I have no right to dictate the terms in which you should mention your benefactor." Beulah's intuitions were remarkably quick, and she asked slowly:

"Do you know him well?"

"Yes; oh, yes! very well indeed. Why do you ask?"

"And you like him very much?"

"Very much."

She saw the gentle face now, and saw that some sorrow had called tears to the eyes, and sent the blood coldly back to her heart.

"No one can like him as I do. You don't know how very kind he has been to me—me, the miserable, lonely orphan," murmured Beulah, as his smile and tones recurred to her.

"Yes, I can imagine, because I know his noble heart; and, therefore, child, I say you cannot realize how privileged you are."

The discussion was cut short by a call to recitation, and too calmly happy in the knowledge of Eugene's safety to ponder her companion's manner, Beulah sank into a reverie, in which Eugene, and Heidelberg, and long letters mingled pleasingly. Later in the day, as she and Pauline were descending the steps, the door of the primary department of the school opened, and a little girl, clad in deep black, started up the same flight of steps. Seeing the two above, she leaned against the wall, waiting for them to pass. Beulah stood still, and the sachel she carried fell unheeded from her hand, while a thrilling cry broke from the little girl's lips; and, springing up the steps, she threw herself into Beulah's arms.

"Dear Beulah! I have found you at last!" She covered the thin face with passionate kisses; then heavy sobs escaped her, and the two wept bitterly together.

"Beulah, I did love her very much; I did not forget what I promised you. She used to put her arms around my neck every night, and go to sleep close to me; and whenever she thought about you and cried, she always put her head in my lap. Indeed I did love her."

"I believe you, Claudy," poor Beulah groaned, in her anguish.

"They did not tell me she was dead; they said she was sick in another room! Oh, Beulah! why didn't you come to see us? Why didn't you come? When she was first taken sick she called for you all the time; and the evening they moved me into the next room she was asking for you. 'I want my sister Beulah! I want my Beulah!' was the last thing I heard her say; and when I cried for you, too, mamma said we were both crazy with fever. Oh!"—she paused and sobbed convulsively. Beulah raised her head, and, while the tears dried in her flashing eyes, said fiercely:

"Claudy, I did go to see you! On my knees, at Mrs. Grayson's front door, I prayed her to let me see you. She refused, and ordered me to come there no more! She would not suffer my sister to know that I was waiting there on my knees to see her dear, angel face. That was long before you were taken sick. She did not even send me word that Lilly was ill: I knew nothing of it till my darling was cold in her little shroud! Oh, Claudy! Claudy!"

She covered her face with her hands and tried to stifle the wail that crossed her lips. Claudia endeavored to soothe her, by winding her arms about her and kissing her repeatedly. Pauline had looked wonderingly on, during this painful reunion; and now drawing nearer, she said, with more gentleness than was her custom:

"Don't grieve so, Beulah. Wipe your eyes and come home; those girls yonder are staring at you."

"What business is it of yours?" began Claudia; but Beulah's sensitive nature shrank from observation, and, rising hastily, she took Claudia to her bosom, kissed her, and turned away.

"Oh, Beulah! shan't I see you again?" cried the latter, with streaming eyes.

"Claudia, your mamma would not be willing."

"I don't care what she thinks. Please come to see me—please, do! Beulah, you don't love me now, because Lilly is dead! Oh, I could not keep her—God took her!"

"Yes, I do love you, Claudy—more than ever; but you must come to see me. I cannot go to that house again. I can't see your mamma Grayson. Come and see me, darling!"