She drew her bonnet over her face and hurried out.

"Where do you live? I will come and see you!" cried Claudia, running after the retreating form.

"She lives at Dr. Hartwell's—that large, brick house, out on the edge of town; everybody knows the place."

Pauline turned back to give this piece of information, and then hastened on to join Beulah. She longed to inquire into all the particulars of the orphan's early life; but the pale, fixed face gave no encouragement to question, and they walked on in perfect silence until they reached the gate at the end of the avenue. Then Pauline asked energetically:

"Is that little one any kin to you?"

"No; I have no kin in this world," answered Beulah drearily.

Pauline shrugged her shoulders, and made no further attempt to elicit confidence. On entering the house, they encountered the doctor, who was crossing the hall. He stopped, and said:

"I have glad tidings for you, Beulah. The 'Morning Star' arrived safely at Amsterdam, and by this time Eugene is at Heidelberg."

Beulah stood very near him, and answered tremblingly:

"Yes, sir; I heard it at school."

He perceived that something was amiss, and, untying her bonnet, looked searchingly at the sorrow-stained face. She shut her eyes, and leaned her head against him.

"What is the matter, my child? I thought you would be very happy in hearing of Eugene's safety."

She was unable to reply just then; and Pauline, who stood swinging her sachel to and fro, volunteered an explanation.

"Uncle Guy, she is curious, that is all. As we were leaving school, she met a little girl on the steps, and they flew at each other, and cried, and kissed, and—you never saw anything like it! I thought the child must be a very dear relation; but she says she has no kin. I don't see the use of crying her eyes out, particularly when the little one is nothing to her."

Her uncle's countenance resumed its habitual severity, and, taking Beulah's hand, he led her into that quietest of all quiet places, his study. Seating himself, and drawing her to his side, he said:

"Was it meeting Claudia that distressed you so much? That child is very warmly attached to you. She raved about you constantly during her illness. So did Lilly. I did not understand the relationship then, or I should have interfered, and carried you to her. I called to see Mr. and Mrs. Grayson last week, to remove the difficulties in the way of your intercourse with Claudia, but they were not at home. I will arrange matters so that you may be with Claudia as often as possible. You have been wronged, child, I know; but try to bury it; it is all past now." He softly smoothed back her hair as he spoke.

"No, sir; it never will be past; it will always be burning here in my heart."

"I thought you professed to believe in the Bible."

She looked up instantly, and answered:

"I do, sir. I do."

"Then your belief is perfectly worthless; for the Bible charges you to 'forgive and love your enemies,' and here you are trying to fan your hate into an everlasting flame."

She saw the scornful curl of his lips, and, sinking down beside him, she laid her head on his knee, and said hastily:

"I know it is wrong, sinful, to feel toward Mrs. Grayson as I do. Yes, sir; the Bible tells me it is very sinful; but I have been so miserable, I could not help hating her. But I will try to do so no more. I will ask God to help me forgive her."

His face flushed even to his temples, and then the blood receded, leaving it like sculptured marble. Unable or unwilling to answer, he put his hands on her head, softly, reverently, as though he touched something ethereal. He little dreamed that, even then, that suffering heart was uplifted to the Throne of Grace, praying the Father that she might so live and govern herself that he might come to believe the Bible, which her clear insight too surely told her he despised.

Oh! Protean temptation. Even as she knelt, with her protector's hands resting on her brow, ubiquitous evil suggested the thought: "Is he not kinder, and better, than anyone you ever knew? Has not Mrs. Grayson a pew in the most fashionable church? Did not Eugene tell you he saw her there, regularly, every Sunday? Professing Christianity, she injured you; rejecting it, he has guarded and most generously aided you. 'By their fruits ye shall judge.'" Very dimly all this passed through her mind. She was perplexed and troubled at the confused ideas veiling her trust.

"Beulah, I have an engagement, and must leave you. Stay here, if you like, or do as you please with yourself. I shall not be home to tea, so good-night." She looked pained, but remained silent. He smiled, and, drawing out his watch, said gayly:

"I verily believe you miss me when I leave you. Go, put on your other bonnet, and come down to the front door; I have nearly an hour yet, I see, and will give you a short ride. Hurry, child; I don't like to wait."

She was soon seated beside him in the buggy, and Mazeppa's swift feet had borne them some distance from home ere either spoke. The road ran near the bay, and while elegant residences lined one side, the other was bounded by a wide expanse of water, rippling, sparkling, glowing in the evening sunlight. Small sail boats, with their gleaming canvas, dotted the blue bosom of the bay; and the balmy breeze, fresh from the gulf, fluttered the bright pennons that floated from their masts. Beulah was watching the snowy wall of foam, piled on either side of the prow of a schooner, and thinking how very beautiful it was, when the buggy stopped suddenly, and Dr. Hartwell addressed a gentleman on horseback:

"Percy, you may expect me; I am coming as I promised."

"I was about to remind you of your engagement. But, Guy, whom have you there?"

"My protegee I told you of. Beulah, this is Mr. Lockhart."

The rider reined his horse near her side, and, leaning forward as he raised his hat, their eyes met. Both started visibly, and, extending his hand, Mr. Lockhart said eagerly:

"Ah, my little forest friend! I am truly glad to find you again."

She shook hands very quietly, but an expression of pleasure stole over her face. Her guardian observed it, and asked:

"Pray, Percy, what do you know of her?"

"That she sings very charmingly," answered his friend, smiling at Beulah.

"He saw me once when I was at the asylum," said she,

"And was singing part of the regime there?"

"No, Guy. She was wandering about the piney woods, near the asylum, with two beautiful elves, when I chanced to meet her. She was singing at the time. Beulah, I am glad to find you out again; and in future, when I pay the doctor long visits, I shall expect you to appear for my entertainment. Look to it, Guy, that she is present. But I am fatigued with my unusual exercise, and must return home. Good-by, Beulah; shake hands. I am going immediately to my room, Guy; so come as soon as you can." He rode slowly on, while Dr. Hartwell shook the reins, and Mazeppa sprang down the road again. Beulah had remarked a great alteration in Mr. Lockhart's appearance; he was much paler, and bore traces of recent and severe illness. His genial manner and friendly words had interested her, and, looking up at her guardian, she said timidly:

"Is he ill, sir?"

"He has been, and is yet quite feeble. Do you like him?"

"I know nothing of him, except that he spoke to me one evening some months ago. Does he live here, sir?"

"No; he has a plantation on the river, but is here on a visit occasionally. Much of his life has been spent in Europe, and thither he goes again very soon."

The sun had set. The bay seemed a vast sheet of fire, as the crimson clouds cast their shifting shadows on its bosom; and, forgetting everything else, Beulah leaned out of the buggy, and said almost unconsciously:

"How beautiful! how very beautiful!" Her lips were parted; her eyes clear and sparkling with delight. Dr. Hartwell sighed, and, turning from the bay road, approached his home. Beulah longed to speak to him of what was pressing on her heart; but, glancing at his countenance to see whether it was an auspicious time, she was deterred by the somber sternness which overshadowed it, and before she could summon courage to speak, they stopped at the front gate.

"Jump out, and go home; I have not time to drive in."

She got out of the buggy, and, looking up at him as he rose to adjust some part of the harness, said bravely:

"I am very much obliged to you for my ride. I have not had such a pleasure for years. I thank you very much."

"All very unnecessary, child. I am glad you enjoyed it."

He seated himself, and gathered up the reins, without looking at her. But she put her hand on the top of the wheel, and said in an apologetic tone:

"Excuse me, sir; but may I wait in your study till you come home? I want to ask you something." Her face flushed, and her voice trembled with embarrassment.

"It may be late before I come home to-night. Can't you tell me now what you want? I can wait."

"Thank you, sir; to-morrow will do as well, I suppose. I will not detain you." She opened the gate and entered the yard. Dr. Hartwell looked after her an instant, and called out, as he drove on:

"Do as you like, Beulah, about waiting for me. Of course the study is free to you at all times."

The walk, or rather carriage road, leading up to the house was bordered by stately poplars and cedars, whose branches interlaced overhead, and formed a perfect arch. Beulah looked up at the dark- green depths among the cedars, and walked on with a feeling of contentment, nay, almost of happiness, which was a stranger to her heart. In front of the house, and in the center of a grassy circle, was a marble basin, from which a fountain ascended. She sat down on the edge of the reservoir, and, taking off her bonnet, gave unrestrained license to her wandering thoughts. Wherever her eyes turned, verdure, flowers, statuary met her gaze; the air was laden with the spicy fragrance of jasmines, and the low, musical babble of the fountain had something very soothing in its sound. With her keen appreciation of beauty, there was nothing needed to enhance her enjoyment; and she ceased to remember her sorrows. Before long, however, she was startled by the sight of several elegantly dressed ladies emerging from the house; at the same instant a handsome carriage, which she had not previously observed, drove from a turn in the walk and drew up to the door to receive them. Mrs. Chilton stood on the steps, exchanging smiles and polite nothings, and, as one of the party requested permission to break a sprig of geranium growing near, she gracefully offered to collect a bouquet, adding, as she severed some elegant clusters of heliotrope and jasmine:

"Guy takes inordinate pride in his parterre, arranges and overlooks all the flowers himself. I often tell him I am jealous of my beautiful rivals; they monopolize his leisure so completely."

"Nonsense! we know to our cost that you of all others need fear rivalry from no quarter. There; don't break any more. What superb taste the doctor has! This lovely spot comes nearer my ideal of European elegance than any place I know at the South. I suppose the fascination of his home makes him such a recluse! Why doesn't he visit more? He neglects us shamefully! He is such a favorite in society too; only I believe everybody is rather afraid of him. I shall make a most desperate effort to charm him so soon as an opportunity offers. Don't tell him I said so though—'forewarned, forearmed.'" All this was very volubly uttered by a dashing, showy young lady, dressed in the extreme of fashion, and bearing unmistakable marks of belonging to beau monde. She extended a hand eased in white kid, for the flowers, and looked steadily at the lady of the house as she spoke.

"I shall not betray your designs, Miss Julia. Guy is a great lover of the beautiful, and I am not aware that anywhere in the book of fate is written the decree that he shall not marry again. Take care, you are tearing your lace point on that rose bush; let me disengage it." She stooped to rescue the cobweb wrapping, and, looking about her, Miss Julia exclaimed:

"Is that you, Pauline? Come and kiss me! Why, you look as unsociable as your uncle, sitting there all alone!"

She extended her hand toward Beulah, who, as may be supposed, made no attempt to approach her. Mrs. Chilton smiled, and, clasping the bracelet on her arm, discovered to her visitor the mistake.

"Pauline is not at home. That is a little beggarly orphan Guy took it into his head to feed and clothe, till some opportunity offered of placing her in a respectable home. I have teased him unmercifully about this display of taste; asked him what rank he assigned her in his catalogue of beautiful treasures." She laughed as if much amused.

"Oh, that reminds me that I heard some of the schoolgirls say that the doctor had adopted an orphan. I thought I would ask you about it. Mother here declared that she knew it could not be so; but I told her he was so very odd, there was no accounting for his notions. So he has not adopted her?"

"Pshaw! of course not! She was a wretched little object of charity, and Guy brought her here to keep her from starving. He picked her up at the hospital, I believe."

"I knew it must be a mistake. Come, Julia, remember you are going out to-night, and it is quite late. Do come very soon, my dear Mrs. Chilton." Mrs. Vincent, Miss Julia, and their companions entered the carriage, and were soon out of sight. Beulah still sat at the fountain. She would gladly have retreated on the appearance of the strangers, but could not effect an escape without attracting the attention she so earnestly desired to be spared, and therefore kept her seat. Every word of the conversation, which had been carried on in anything but a subdued tone, reached her, and though the head was unbowed as if she had heard nothing, her face was dyed with shame. Her heart throbbed violently, and as the words, "beggarly orphan," "wretched object of charity," fell on her ears, it seemed as if a fierce fire-bath had received her. As the carriage disappeared, Mrs. Chilton approached her, and, stung to desperation by the merciless taunts, she instantly rose and confronted her. Never had she seen the widow look so beautiful, and for a moment they eyed each other.

"What are you doing here, after having been told to keep out of sight?—answer me!" She spoke with the inflexible sternness of a mistress to an offending servant.

"Madam, I am not the miserable beggar you represented me a moment since; nor will I answer questions addressed in any such tone of authority and contempt."

"Indeed! Well, then, my angelic martyr, how do you propose to help yourself?" answered Mrs. Chilton, laughing with undisguised scorn.

"Dr. Hartwell brought me to his house, of his own accord; you know that I was scarcely conscious when I came into it. He has been very kind to me—has offered to adopt me. This you know perfectly well. But I am not in danger of starvation away from this house. You know that instead of having been picked up at the hospital, I was earning my living, humble though it was, as a servant. He offered to adopt me, because he saw that I was very unhappy; not because I needed food or clothes, as you asserted just now, and as you knew was untrue. Madam, I have known, ever since my recovery, that you hated me, and I scorn to accept bounty, nay, even a shelter, where I am so unwelcome. I have never dreamed of occupying the place you covet for Pauline. I intended to accept Dr. Hartwell's kindness, so far as receiving an education, which would enable me to support myself less laboriously; but, madam, I will relieve you of my hated presence. I can live without any assistance from your family. The despised and ridiculed orphan will not remain to annoy you. Oh, you might have effected your purpose with less cruelty! You could have told me kindly that you did not want me here, and I would not have wondered at it. But to crush me publicly, as you have done—" Wounded pride stifled the trembling accents.

Mrs. Chilton bit her lip. She had not expected this expression of proud independence; and, seeing that she had gone too far, pondered the best method of rectifying the mischief with as little compromise of personal dignity as possible. Ultimately to eject her, she had intended from the first; but perfectly conscious that her brother would accept no explanation or palliation of the girl's departure at this juncture, and that she and Pauline would soon follow her from the house, she felt that her own interest demanded the orphan's presence for a season. Nearly blinded by tears of indignation and mortification, Beulah turned from her, but the delicate white hand arrested her, and pressed heavily on her shoulder. She drew herself up, and tried to shake off the hold; but firm as iron was the grasp of the snowy fingers, and calm and cold as an Arctic night was the tone which said:

"Pshaw, girl, are you mad? You have sense enough to know that you are one too many in this house; but if you only desire to be educated, as you profess, why, I am perfectly willing that you should remain here. The idea of your growing up as my brother's heiress and adopted child was too preposterous to be entertained, and you can see the absurdity yourself; but so long as you understand matters properly, and merely desire to receive educational advantages, of course you can and will remain. I do not wish this to go any further, and, as a sensible girl, you will not mention it. As a friend, however, I would suggest that you should avoid putting yourself in the way of observation." As she concluded she quietly brushed off a small spider which was creeping over Beulah's sleeve.

"Don't trouble yourself, madam; I am not at all afraid of poisonous things; I have become accustomed to them."

Smiling bitterly, she stooped to pick up her new bonnet, which had fallen on the grass at her feet, and, fixing her eyes defiantly on the handsome face before her, said resolutely:

"No! contemptible as you think me, beggarly and wretched as you please to term me, I have too much self-respect to stay a day longer where I have been so grossly, so needlessly insulted. You need not seek to detain me. Take your hand off my arm. I am going now; the sooner, the better. I understand, madam, your brother will not countenance your cruelty, and you are ashamed for him to know what, in his absence, you were not ashamed to do. I scorn to retaliate! He shall not learn from me why I left so suddenly. Tell him what you choose."

Mrs. Chilton was very pale, and her lips were compressed till they grew purple. Clinching her hand, she said under her breath:

"You artful little wretch. Am I to be thwarted by such a mere child? You shall not quit the house. Go to your room, and don't make a fool of yourself. In future I shall not concern myself about you, if you take root at the front door. Go in, and let matters stand. I promise you I will not interfere again, no matter what you do. Do you hear me?"

"No. You have neither the power to detain nor to expel me. I shall leave here immediately, and you need not attempt to coerce me; for, if you do, I will acquaint Dr. Hartwell with the whole affair, as soon as he comes, or when I see him. I am going for my clothes; not those you so reluctantly had made, but the old garments I wore when I worked for my bread." She shook off the detaining hand, and went up to her room. Harriet had already lighted her lamp, and, as she entered the door, the rays fell brightly on the picture she had learned to love so well. Now she looked at it through scalding tears, and, to her excited fancy, the smile seemed to have faded from the lips of Hope, and the valley looked more dreary, and the pilgrims more desolate and miserable. She turned from it, and, taking off the clothes she wore, dressed herself in the humble apparel of former days. The old trunk was scarcely worth keeping, save as a relic; and folding up the clothes and books into as small a bundle as possible, she took it in her arms and descended the steps. She wished very much to tell Harriet good-by, and thank her for her unvarying kindness; and now, on the eve of her departure, she remembered the words whispered during her illness, and the offer of assistance when she "got into trouble," as Harriet phrased it; but, dreading to meet Mrs. Chilton again, she hurried down the hall, and left the house. The friendly stars looked kindly down upon the orphan, as she crossed the common, and proceeded toward the asylum, and raising her eyes to the jeweled dome, the solemn beauty of the night hushed the wild tumult in her heart, and she seemed to hear the words pronounced from the skyey depths: "Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end." Gradually, the results of the step she had taken obtruded themselves before her, and with a keen pang of pain and grief came the thought, "What will Dr. Hartwell think of me?" All his kindness during the time she had passed beneath his roof—his genial tones; his soft, caressing touch on her head; his rare, but gentle smile; his constant care for her comfort and happiness—all rushed like lightning over her mind, and made the hot tears gush over her face. Mrs. Chilton would, of course, offer him some plausible solution of her sudden departure. He would think her ungrateful, and grow indifferent to her welfare or fate. Yet hope whispered, "He will suspect the truth; he must know his sister's nature; he will not blame me." But all this was in the cloudy realm of conjecture, and the stern realities of her position weighed heavily on her heart. Through Dr. Hartwell, who called to explain her sudden disappearance, Mrs. Martin had sent her the eighteen dollars due for three months' service, and this little sum was all that she possessed. As she walked on, pondering the many difficulties which attended the darling project of educating herself thoroughly, the lights of the asylum greeted her, and it was with a painful sense of desolation that she mounted the steps, and stood upon the threshold, where she and Lilly had so often sat, in years gone by. Mrs. Williams met her at the door, wondering what unusual occurrence induced a visitor at this unseasonable hour. The hall lamp shone on her kind but anxious face, and as Beulah looked at her, remembered care and love caused a feeling of suffocation, and, with an exclamation of joy, she threw her arms around her. Astonished at a greeting so unexpected, the matron glanced hurriedly at the face pressed against her bosom, and, recognizing her quondam charge, folded her tenderly to her heart.

"Beulah, dear child, I am so glad to see you!" As she kissed her white cheeks, Beulah felt the tears dropping down upon them.

"Come into my room, dear, and take off your bonnet." She led her to the quiet little room, and took the bundle and the antiquated bonnet, which Pauline declared "Mrs. Noah had worn all through the forty days' shower."

"Mrs. Williams, can I stay here with you until I can get a place somewhere? The managers will not object, will they?"

"No, dear; I suppose not. But, Beulah, I thought you had been adopted, just after Lilly died, by Dr. Hartwell? Here I have been, ever since I heard it from some of the managers, thinking how lucky it was for you, and feeling so thankful to God for remembering his orphans. Child, what has happened? Tell me freely, Beulah."

With her head on the matron's shoulder, she imparted enough of what had transpired to explain her leaving her adopted home. Mrs. Williams shook her head, and said sadly:

"You have been too hasty, child. It was Dr. Hartwell's house; he had taken you to it, and, without consulting and telling him, you should not have left it. If you felt that you could not live there in peace with his sister, it was your duty to have told him so, and then decided as to what course you would take. Don't be hurt, child, if I tell you you are too proud. Poverty and pride make a bitter lot in this world; and take care you don't let your high spirit ruin your prospects. I don't mean to say, dear, that you ought to bear insult and oppression, but I do think you owed it to the doctor's kindness to have waited until his return before you quitted his house."

"Oh, you do not know him! If he knew all that Mrs. Chilton said and did he would turn her and Pauline out of the house immediately. They are poor, and, but for him, could not live without toil. I have no right to cause their ruin. She is his sister, and has a claim on him. I have none. She expects Pauline to inherit his fortune, and could not bear to think of his adopting me. I don't wonder at that so much. But she need not have been so cruel, so insulting. I don't want his money, or his house, or his elegant furniture. I only want an education, and his advice, and his kind care for a few years. I like Pauline very much indeed. She never treated me at all unkindly; and I could not bear to bring misfortune on her, she is so happy."

"That is neither here nor there. He will not hear the truth, of course; and, even if he did, he will not suppose you were actuated by any such Christian motives to shield his sister's meanness. You ought to have seen him first."

"Well, it is all over now, and I see I must help myself. I want to go to the public school, where the tuition is free; but how can I support myself in the meantime? Eighteen dollars would not board me long, and, besides, I shall have to buy clothes." She looked up, much perplexed, in the matron's anxious face. The latter was silent a moment, and then said:

"Why, the public school closes in a few weeks; the next session will not begin before autumn, and what could you do until then? No, I will just inform Dr. Hartwell of the truth of the whole matter. I think it is due him, and—"

"Indeed you must not! I promised Mrs. Chilton that I would not implicate her, and your doing it would amount to the same thing. I would not be the means of driving Pauline out of her uncle's house for all the gold in California!"

"Silly child! What on earth possessed you to promise any such thing?"

"I wanted her to see that I was honest in what I said. She knew that I could, by divulging the whole affair, turn her out of the house (for Dr. Hartwell's disposition is a secret to no one who has lived in his home), and I wished to show her that I told the truth in saying I only wanted to be educated for a teacher." "Suppose the doctor comes here and asks you about the matter?"

"I shall tell him that I prefer not being dependent on anyone. But he will not come. He does not know where I am."

Yet the dread that he would filled her mind with new anxieties.

"Well, well, it is no use to fret over what can't be undone. I wish I could help you, but I don't see any chance just now."

"Could not I get some plain sewing? Perhaps the managers would give me work?"

"Ah, Beulah, it would soon kill you, to have to sew for your living."

"No, no; I can bear more than you think," answered the girl, with a dreary smile.

"Yes; your spirit can endure more than your body. Your father died with consumption, child; but don't fret about it any more to-night. Come, get some supper, and then go to sleep. You will stay in my room, with me, dear, till something can be done to assist you."

"Mrs. Williams, you must promise me that you never will speak of what I have told you regarding that conversation with Mrs. Chilton."

"I promise you, dear, I never will mention it, since you prefer keeping the matter secret."

"What will Dr. Hartwell think of me?" was the recurring thought that would not be banished; and, unable to sleep, Beulah tossed restlessly on her pillow all night, dreading lest he should despise her for her seeming ingratitude.



CHAPTER XI.

For perhaps two hours after Beulah's departure Mrs. Chilton wandered up and down the parlors, revolving numerous schemes explanatory of her unexpected exodus. Completely nonplused, for the first time in her life, she sincerely rued the expression of dislike and contempt which had driven the orphan from her adopted home; and, unable to decide on the most plausible solution to be offered her brother, she paced restlessly to and fro. Engrossed by no particularly felicitous reflections, she failed to notice Mazeppa's quick tramp, and remained in ignorance of the doctor's return until he entered the room, and stood beside her. His manner was hurried, his thoughts evidently preoccupied, as he said:

"May, I am going into the country to be absent all of tomorrow, and possibly longer. There is some surgical work to be performed for a careless hunter, and I must start immediately. I want you to see that a room is prepared for Percy Lockhart. He is very feeble, and I have invited him to come and stay with me while he is in the city. He rode out this evening, and is worse from the fatigue. I shall expect you to see that everything is provided for him that an invalid could desire. Can I depend upon you?"

"Certainly; I will exert myself to render his stay here pleasant; make yourself easy on that score." It was very evident that the cloud was rapidly lifting from her heart and prospects; but she veiled the sparkle in her eye, and, unsuspicious of anything amiss, her brother left the room. Walking up to one of the mirrors, which extended from floor to ceiling, she surveyed herself carefully, and a triumphant smile parted her lips.

"Percy Lockhart is vulnerable as well as other people, and I have yet to see the man whose heart will proudly withstand the allurements of flattery, provided the homage is delicately and gracefully offered. Thank Heaven! years have touched me lightly, and there was more truth than she relished in what Julia Vincent said about my beauty!"

This self-complacent soliloquy was cut short by the appearance of her brother, who carried a case of surgical instruments in his hand.

"May, tell Beulah I am sorry I did not see her. I would go up and wake her, but have not time. She wished to ask me something. Tell her, if it is anything of importance, to do just as she likes; I will see about it when I come home. Be sure you tell her. Good- night; take care of Percy." He turned away, but she exclaimed:

"She is not here, Guy. She asked me this evening if she might spend the night at the asylum. She thought you would not object, and certainly I had no authority to prevent her. Indeed, the parlor was full of company, and I told her she might go if she wished. I suppose she will be back early in the morning."

His face darkened instantly, and she felt that he was searching her with his piercing eyes.

"All this sounds extremely improbable to me. If she is not at home again at breakfast, take the carriage and go after her. Mind, May! I will sift the whole matter when I come back." He hurried off, and she breathed freely once more. Dr. Hartwell sprang into his buggy, to which a fresh horse had been attached, and, dismissing Hal, whose weight would only have retarded his progress, he drove rapidly off. The gate had been left open for him, and he was passing through, when arrested by Harriet's well-known voice.

"Stop, master! Stop a minute!"

"What do you want? I can't stop!" cried he impatiently.

"Are you going after that poor, motherless child?"

"No. But what the devil is to pay here! I shall get at the truth now. Where is Beulah? Talk fast."

"She is at the asylum to-night, sir. I followed and watched the poor little thing. Master, if you don't listen to me, if you please, sir, you never will get at the truth, for that child won't tell it. I heard her promise Miss May she would not. You would be ready to fight if you knew all I know."

"Why did Beulah leave here this evening?"

"Because Miss May abused and insulted her; told her before some ladies that she was a 'miserable beggar' that you picked up at the hospital, and that you thought it was charity to feed and clothe her till she was big enough to work. The ladies were in the front yard, and the child happened to be sitting by the fountain; she had just come from riding. I was sewing at one of the windows upstairs, sir, and heard every word. When the folks were gone Miss May walks up to her and asks her what she is doing where anybody could see her? Oh, master! if you could have seen that child's looks. She fairly seemed to rise off her feet, and her face was as white as a corpse. She said she had wanted an education; that she knew you had been very kind; hut she never dreamed of taking Miss Pauline's place in your house. She said she would not stay where she was unwelcome; that she was not starving when you took her home; that she knew you were kind and good; but that she scorned—them were the very words, master— she scorned to stay a day longer where she had been so insulted! Oh, she was in a towering rage; she trembled all over, and Miss May began to be scared, for she knew you would not suffer such doings, and she tried to pacify her and make up the quarrel by telling her she might stay and have an education, if that was all she wanted. But the girl would not hear to anything she said, and told her she need not be frightened, that she wouldn't go to you with the fuss; she would not tell you why she left your house. She went to her room and she got every rag of her old clothes, and left the house with the tears raining out of her eyes. Oh, master, it's a crying shame! If you had only been here to hear that child talk to Miss May! Good Lord! how her big eyes did blaze when she told her she could earn a living!"

By the pale moonlight she could see that her master's face was rigid as steel; but his voice was even calmer than usual when he asked: "Are you sure she is now at the asylum?"

"Yes, sir; sure."

"Very well; she is safe then for the present. Does anyone know that you heard the conversation?"

"Not a soul, sir, except yourself."

"Keep the matter perfectly quiet till I come home. I shall be away a day, or perhaps longer. Meantime, see that Beulah does not get out of your sight. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir—I do."

The buggy rolled swiftly on, and Harriet returned to the house by a circuitous route, surmising that "Miss May's" eyes might detect her movements.

The same night Clara Sanders sat on the doorstep of her tumble cottage home. The moonlight crept through the clustering honeysuckle and silvered the piazza floor with grotesque fretwork, while it bathed lovingly the sad face of the girlish watcher. Her chin rested in her palms, and the soft eyes were bent anxiously on the countenance of her infirm and aged companion.

"Grandpa, don't look so troubled. I am very sorry, too, about the diploma; but if I am not to have it, why, there is no use in worrying about it. Madam St. Cymon is willing to employ me as I am, and certainly I should feel grateful for her preference, when there are several applicants for the place. She told me this evening that she thought I would find no difficulty in performing what would be required of me."

This was uttered in a cheerful tone, which might have succeeded very well had the sorrowful face been veiled.

"Ah, Clara, you don't dream of the burden you are taking upon yourself! The position of assistant teacher in an establishment like Madam St. Cymon's is one that you are by nature totally unfitted for. Child, it will gall your spirit; it will be unendurable." The old man sighed heavily.

"Still, I have been educated with an eye to teaching, and though I am now to occupy a very subordinate place, the trials will not be augmented. On the whole, I do not know but it is best as it is. Do not try to discourage me. It is all I can do, and I am determined I will not despond about what can't be helped."

"My dear child, I did not mean to depress you. But you are so young to bow your neck to such a yoke! How old are you?" He turned round to look at her.

"Only sixteen and a few months. Life is before me yet, an untrodden plain. Who knows but this narrow path of duty may lead to a calm, sweet resting-place for us both? I was thinking just now of that passage from your favorite Wallenstein:"

"My soul's secure! In the night only, Friedland's stars can beam.'

"The darkness has come down upon us, grandpa; let us wait patiently for the uprising of stars. I am not afraid of the night."

There was silence for some moments; then the old man rose, and, putting back the white locks which had fallen over his face, asked, in a subdued tone:

"When will you commence your work?"

"To-morrow, sir."

"God bless you, Clara, and give you strength, as he sees you have need." He kissed her fondly, and withdrew to his own room. She sat for some time looking vacantly at the mosaic of light and shade on the floor before her, and striving to divest her mind of the haunting thought that she was the victim of some unyielding necessity, whose decree had gone forth, and might not be annulled. In early childhood her home had been one of splendid affluence; but reverses came, thick and fast, as misfortunes ever do, and, ere she could realize the swift transition, penury claimed her family among its crowding legions. Discouraged and embittered, her father made the wine-cup the sepulcher of care, and in a few months found a deeper and far more quiet grave. His mercantile embarrassments had dragged his father-in-law to ruin; and, too aged to toil up the steep again, the latter resigned himself to spending the remainder of his days in obscurity, and perhaps want. To Clara's gifted mother he looked for aid and comfort in the clouded evening of life, and with unceasing energy she toiled to shield her father and her child from actual labor. Thoroughly acquainted with music and drawing, her days were spent in giving lessons in those branches which had been acquired with reference to personal enjoyment alone, and the silent hours of the night often passed in stitching the garments of those who had flocked to her costly entertainments in days gone by. When Clara was about thirteen years of age a distant relative, chancing to see her, kindly proposed to contribute the sum requisite for affording her every educational advantage. The offer was gratefully accepted by the devoted mother, and Clara was placed at Madam St. Cymon's, where more than ordinary attention could be bestowed on the languages.

The noble woman whose heart had bled incessantly over the misery, ruin, and degradation of her husband sank slowly under the intolerable burden of sorrows, and a few weeks previous to the evening of which I write folded her weary hands and went home to rest. In the springtime of girlhood, Clara felt herself transformed into a woman. Standing beside her mother's tomb, supporting her grandmother's tottering form, she shuddered in anticipating the dreary future that beckoned her on; and now, as if there were not troubles enough already to disquiet her, the annual amount advanced toward her school expenses was suddenly withdrawn. The cousin, residing in a distant State, wrote that pecuniary troubles had assailed him, and prevented all further assistance. In one more year she would have finished the prescribed course and graduated honorably; and, more than all, she would have obtained a diploma, which might have been an "open sesame" to any post she aspired to. Thus frustrated in her plans, she gladly accepted the position of assistant teacher in the primary department, which, having become vacant by the dismissal of the incumbent, madam kindly tendered her. The salary was limited, of course; but nothing else presented itself, and, quitting the desk, where she had so often pored over her text-books, she prepared to grapple with the trials which thickly beset the path of a young woman thrown upon her own resources for maintenance. Clara was naturally amiable, unselfish, and trusting. She was no intellectual prodigy, yet her mind was clear and forcible, her judgment matured, and, above all, her pure heart warm and loving. Notwithstanding the stern realities that marked her path, there was a vein of romance in her nature which, unfortunately, attained more than healthful development, and while it often bore her into the Utopian realms of fancy, it was still impotent to modify, in any degree, the social difficulties with which she was forced to contend. Ah, there is a touching beauty in the radiant up-look of a girl just crossing the limits of youth, and commencing her journey through the checkered sphere of womanhood! It is all dew-sparkle and morning glory to her ardent, buoyant spirit, as she presses forward exulting in blissful anticipations. But the withering heat of the conflict of life creeps on; the dewdrops exhale, the garlands of hope, shattered and dead, strew the path, and too often, ere noontide, the clear brow and sweet smile are exchanged for the weary look of one longing for the evening rest, the twilight, the night. Oh, may the good God give his sleep early unto these many!

There was a dawning light in Clara's eyes which showed that, though as yet a mere girl in years, she had waked to the consciousness of emotions which belong to womanhood. She was pretty, and of course she knew it, for I am skeptical of those characters who grow up to mature beauty, all unsuspicious of the fatal dower, and are some day startled by a discovery of their possessions. She knew, too, that female loveliness was an all-potent spell, and, depressing as were the circumstances of her life and situation, she felt that a brighter lot might be hers, without any very remarkable or seemingly inconsistent course of events.



CHAPTER XII.

"Harriet, bring me a cup of strong coffee."

Dr. Hartwell had returned late in the afternoon of the second day, and, travel-worn and weary, threw himself down on the sofa in his study. There was a pale severity in his face which told that his reflections during his brief absence had been far from pleasant, and as he swept back the hair from his forehead, and laid his head on the cushion, the whole countenance bespoke the bitterness of a proud but miserable man. He remained for some time with closed eyes, and when the coffee was served drank it without comment. Harriet busied herself about the room, doing various unnecessary things, and wondering why her master did not inquire concerning home affairs. Finally, having exhausted every pretext for lingering, she coughed very spasmodically once or twice, and, putting her hand on the knob of the door, said deferentially:

"Do you want anything else, sir? The bathroom is all ready."

"Has my sister been to the asylum?"

"No, sir."

"Go and arrange Beulah's room."

She retired; and, springing up, he paced the floor, striving to master the emotion which so unwontedly agitated him. His lips writhed, and the thin nostrils expanded, but he paused before the melodeon, sat down and played several pieces, and gradually the swollen veins on his brow lost their corded appearance, and the mouth resumed its habitual compression. Then, with an exterior as calm as the repose of death, he took his hat, and went toward the parlor. Mr. Lockhart was reclining on one of the sofas, Pauline sat on an ottoman near him, looking over a book of prints, and Mrs. Chilton, tastefully attired, occupied the piano-stool. Witching strains of music greeted her brother, as he stopped at the door and looked in. In the mirror opposite she saw his image reflected, and for an instant her heart beat rapidly; but the delicate fingers flew over the keys as skillfully as before, and only the firm setting of the teeth betokened the coming struggle. He entered, and, walking up to the invalid, said cordially:

"How are you, Percy? better, I hope." While one hand clasped his friend's, the other was laid with brotherly freedom on the sick man's head.

"Of course I am. There was no malady in Eden, was there? Verily, Guy, in your delightful home, I am growing well again."

"Ah! so much for not possessing Ithuriel's spear. I am glad to find you free from fever."

"Howd'y-do, uncle! Don't you see me?" said Pauline, reaching up her hand.

"It is always hard to find you, Pauline; you are such a demure, silent little body," said he, shaking her hand kindly.

"Welcome, Guy! I expected you yesterday. What detained you so long?" Mrs. Chilton approached with outstretched hand, and at the same time offered her lips for a kiss.

He availed himself of neither, but, fixing his eyes intently on hers, said as sweetly as if he had been soothing a fretful child:

"Necessity, of course; but now that I have come, I shall make amends, I promise you, for the delay. Percy, has she taken good care of you?"

"She is an admirable nurse; I can never requite the debt she has imposed. Is not my convalescence sufficient proof of her superior skill?" Mr. Lockhart raised himself, and, leaning on his elbow, suffered his eyes to rest admiringly on the graceful form and faultless features beside him.

"Are you really so much better?" said Dr. Hartwell, gnawing his lip.

"Indeed I am! Why are you so incredulous? Have you so little confidence in your own prescriptions?"

"Confidence! I had little enough when given, immeasurably less now. But we will talk of all this after a little. I have some matters to arrange, and will be with you at tea. May, I wish to see you."

"Well, Guy, what is it!" Without moving an inch, she looked up at him.

"Come to my study," answered her brother quietly.

"And leave your patient to amuse himself? Really, Guy, you exercise the rites of hospitality so rarely that you forget the ordinary requirements. Apropos, your little protegee has not returned. It seems she did not fancy living here, and prefers staying at the asylum. I would not trouble myself about her, if I were you. Some people cannot appreciate kindness, you know." She uttered this piece of counsel with perfect sangfroid, and met her brother's eye as innocently as Pauline would have done.

"I am thoroughly acquainted with her objections to this place, and determined to remove them so completely that she cannot refused to return."

A gray pallor crept over his sister's face; but she replied, with her usual equanimity.

"You have seen her, then? I thought you had hurried back to your sick friend here, without pausing by the way."

"No! I have not seen her, and, you are aware, her voluntary promise would seal her lips, even if I had." He smiled contemptuously, as he saw her puzzled look, and continued: "Percy will excuse you for a few moments; come with me. Pauline, entertain this gentleman in our absence."

She took his offered arm, and they proceeded to the study in silence.

"Sit down." Dr. Hartwell pushed a chair toward her, and stood looking her fully in the face. She did not shrink, and asked unconcernedly:

"Well, Guy, to what does all this preamble lead?"

"May, is the doctrine of future punishments laid down as orthodox, in that elegantly gilded prayer-book you take with you in your weekly pilgrimages to church?"

"Come, come, Guy; if you have no respect for religion yourself, don't scoff at its observances in my presence. It is very unkind, and I will not allow it." She rose, with an air of offended dignity.

"Scoff! You wrong me. Why, verily, your religion is too formidable to suffer the thought. I tell you, sister mine, your creed is a terrible one in my eyes." He looked at her with a smile of withering scorn.

She grew restless under his impaling gaze, and he continued mockingly:

"From such creeds! such practice! Good Lord deliver us!"

She turned to go, but his hand fell heavily on her shoulder.

"I am acquainted with all that passed between Beulah and yourself the evening she left my house. I was cognizant of the whole truth before I left the city."

"Artful wretch! She is as false as contemptible!" muttered the sister, through set teeth.

"Take care! Do not too hastily apply your own individual standard of action to others. She does not dream that I am acquainted with the truth, though doubtless she wonders that, knowing you so well, I should not suspect it."

"Ah, guided by your favorite Mephistopheles, you wrapped the mantle of invisibility about you, and heard it all. Eh?"

"No; Mephistopheles is not ubiquitous, and I left him at home here, it seems, when I took that child to ride. It is difficult for me to believe you are my sister! very difficult! It is the most humiliating thought that could possibly be suggested to me. May, I very nearly decided to send you and Pauline out into the world without a dime!—without a cent!—just as I found you, and I may do so yet—"

"You dare not! You dare not! You swore a solemn oath to the dying that you would always provide for us! I am not afraid of your breaking your vow!" cried Mrs. Chilton leaning heavily against the table to support herself.

"You give me credit for too much nicety. I tell you I would break my oath to-morrow—nay, to-night; for your duplicity cancels it—but for that orphan you hate so cordially. She would never return if you and Pauline suffered for the past. For her sake, and hers only, I will still assist, support you; for have her here I will! if it cost me life and fortune! I would send you off to the plantation, but there are no educational advantages there for Pauline; and, therefore, if Beulah returns, I have resolved to buy and give you a separate home, wherever you may prefer. Stay here, you cannot and shall not!"

"And what construction will the world place on your taking a young girl into your house at the time that I leave it? Guy, with what marvelous foresight you are endowed!" said she, laughing sardonically.

"I shall take measures to prevent any improper construction! Mrs. Watson, the widow of one of my oldest and best friends, has been left in destitute circumstances, and I shall immediately offer her a home here, to take charge of my household and look after Beulah when I am absent. She is an estimable woman, past fifty years of age, and her character is so irreproachable that her presence here will obviate the objection you have urged. You will decide to-night where you wish to fix your future residence, and let me know to-morrow. I shall not give you longer time for a decision. Meantime, when Beulah returns you will not allude to the matter. At your peril, May! I have borne much from you; but, by all that I prize, I swear I will make you suffer severely if you dare to interfere again. Do not imagine that I am ignorant of your schemes! I tell you now, I would gladly see Percy Lockhart lowered into the grave rather than know that you had succeeded in blinding him! Oh, his noble nature would loathe you, could he see you as you are. There, go! or I shall forget that I am talking to a woman—much less a woman claiming to be my sister! Go! go!" He put up his hands as if unwilling to look at her, and, leaving the room, descended to the front door. A large family carriage, drawn by two horses, stood in readiness, and, seating himself within it, he ordered the coachman to drive to the asylum. Mrs. Williams met him at the entrance, and, despite her assumed composure, felt nervous and uncomfortable, for his scrutinizing look disconcerted her.

"Madam, you are the matron of this institution, I presume. I want to see Beulah Benton."

"Sir, she saw your carriage, and desired me to say to you that, though she was very grateful for your kindness, she did not wish to burden you, and preferred remaining here until she could find some position which would enable her to support herself. She begs you will not insist upon seeing her; she does not wish to see you."

"Where is she? I shall not leave the house until I do see her."

She saw from his countenance that it was useless to contend. There was an unbending look of resolve which said plainly, "Tell me where to find her, or I shall search for her at once." Secretly pleased at the prospect of reconciliation, the matron no longer hesitated, and, pointing to the staircase, said: "She is in the first right-hand room."

He mounted the steps, opened the door, and entered. Beulah was standing by the window. She had recognized his step, and knew that he was in the room, but felt as if she would not meet his eye for the universe. Yet there was in her heart an intense longing to see him again. During the two past days she had missed his kind manner and grave watchfulness, and now, if she had dared to yield to the impulse that prompted, she would have sprung to meet him and caught his hand to her lips. He approached, and stood looking at the drooped face; then his soft, cool touch was on her head, and he said in his peculiar low, musical tones:

"Proud little spirit, come home and be happy."

She shook her head, saying resolutely:

"I cannot; I have no home. I could not be happy in your house."

"You can be in future. Beulah, I know the whole truth of this matter. How I discovered it is no concern of yours—you have not broken your promise. Now, mark me; I make your return to my house the condition of my sister's pardon. I am not trifling! If you persist in leaving me, I tell you solemnly I will send her and Pauline out into the world to work for their daily bread, as you want to do! If you will come back, I will give them a comfortable home of their own wherever they may prefer to live, and see that they are always well cared for. But they shall not remain in my house whether you come or not. I am in earnest! Look at me; you know I never say what I do not mean. I want you to come back; I ask you to come with me now. I am lonely; my home is dark and desolate. Come, my child; come!" He held her hands in his, and drew her gently toward him. She looked eagerly into his face, and, as she noted the stern sadness that marred its noble beauty, the words of his sister flashed upon her memory: He had been married! Was it the loss of his wife that had so darkened his elegant home?—that gave such austerity to the comparatively youthful face? She gazed into the deep eyes till she grew dizzy, and answered indistinctly:

"I have no claim on you—will not be the means of parting you and your sister. You have Pauline; make her your child."

"Henceforth my sister and myself are parted, whether you will it or not, whether you come back or otherwise. Once for all, if you would serve her, come, for on this condition only will I provide for her. Pauline does not suit me; you do. I can make you a friend, in some sort a companion. Beulah, you want to come to me; I see it in your eyes; but I see too that you want conditions. What are they?"

"Will you always treat Pauline just as kindly as if you had never taken me to your house?"

"Except having a separate home, she shall never know any difference. I promise you this. What else?"

"Will you let me go to the public school instead of Madam St. Cymon's?"

"Why, pray?"

"Because the tuition is free."

"And you are too proud to accept any aid from me?"

"No, sir; I want your counsel and guidance, and I want to be with you to show you that I do thank you for all your goodness; but I want to cost you as little as possible."

"You do not expect to depend on me always, then?" said he, smiling despite himself.

"No, sir; only till I am able to teach. If you are willing to do this, I shall be glad to go back, very glad; but not unless you are." She looked as firm as her guardian.

"Better stipulate also that you are to wear nothing more expensive than bit calico." He seemed much amused.

"Indeed, sir, I am not jesting at all. If you will take care of me while I am educating myself, I shall be very grateful to you; but I am not going to be adopted."

"Very well. Then I will try to take care of you. I have signed your treaty; are you ready to come home?"

"Yes, sir; glad to come." Her fingers closed confidingly over his, and they joined Mrs. Williams in the hall below. A brief explanation from Beulah sufficed for the rejoicing matron, and soon she was borne rapidly from the asylum. Dr. Hartwell was silent until they reached home, and Beulah was going to her own room, when he asked suddenly:

"What was it that you wished to ask me about the evening of the ride?"

"That I might go to the public school."

"What put that into your head?" "As an independent orphan, I am insulted at Madam St. Cymon's."

"By whom?" His eyes flashed.

"No matter now, sir."

"By whom? I ask you."

"Not by Pauline. She would scorn to be guilty of anything so ungenerous."

"You do not mean to answer my question, then?"

"No, sir. Do not ask me to do so, for I cannot."

"Very well. Get ready for tea. Mr. Lockhart is here. One word more. You need fear no further interference from anyone."

He walked on, and, glad to be released, Beulah hastened to her own room, with a strange feeling of joy on entering it again. Harriet welcomed her warmly, and, without alluding to her absence, assisted in braiding the heavy masses of hair, which required arranging. Half an hour after, Dr. Hartwell knocked at the door, and conducted her downstairs. Mrs. Chilton rose and extended her hand, with an amicable expression of countenance for which Beulah was not prepared. She could not bring herself to accept the hand, but her salutation was gravely polite.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Chilton."

Mr. Lockhart made room for her on the sofa; and, quietly ensconced in one corner, she sat for some time so engaged in listening to the general conversation that the bitter recollection of by-gone trials was entirely banished. Dr. Hartwell and his friend were talking of Europe, and the latter, after recounting much of interest in connection with his former visits, said earnestly:

"Go with me this time, Guy; one tour cannot have satiated you. It will be double, nay, triple, enjoyment to have you along. It is, and always has been, a mystery to me why you should persist in practicing. You do not need the pecuniary aid; your income would enable you to live just as you pleased. Life is short at best. Why not glean all of pleasure that travel affords to a nature like yours? Your sister was just telling me that in a few days she goes North to place Pauline at some celebrated school, and, without her, you will be desolate. Come, let's to Europe together. What do you say?"

Dr. Hartwell received this intimation of his sister's plans without the slightest token of surprise, and smiled sarcastically as he replied:

"Percy, I shall answer you in the words of a favorite author of the day. He says, 'It is for want of self-culture that the superstition of traveling, whose idols are Italy, England, Egypt, retains its fascination for all educated Americans. He who travels to be amused, or to get somewhat which he does not carry, travels away from himself, and grows old, even in youth, among—old things. In Thebes, in Palmyra, his will and mind have become old and dilapidated as they. He carries ruins to ruins. Traveling is a fool's paradise. At home I dream that at Naples, at Rome, I can be intoxicated with beauty and lose my sadness. I pack my trunk, embark, and finally wake up in Naples, and there beside me is the stern fact, the sad self, unrelenting, identical, that I fled from. I affect to be intoxicated with sights and suggestions, but I am not. My giant goes with me wherever I go.' Percy, I endeavored to drown my giant in the Mediterranean; to bury it forever beneath the green waters of Lago Maggiore; to hurl it from solemn, icy, Alpine heights; to dodge it in museums of art; but, as Emerson says, it clung to me with unerring allegiance, and I came home. And now, daily and yearly, I repeat the hopeless experiment, in my round of professional duties. Yes, May and Pauline are going away, but I shall have Beulah to look after, and I fancy time will not drag its wheels through coming years. How soon do you think of leaving America? I have some commissions for you when you start."

"I hope I shall be able to go North within a fortnight, and, after a short visit to Newport or Saratoga, sail for Havre. What do you want from the great storehouse of art, sculpture, and paintings, cameos and prints?"

"I will furnish you with a catalogue. Do you go through Germany, or only flaunt, butterfly-like, under the sunny skies of the Levant?"

"I have, as yet, no settled plans; but probably before I return shall explore Egypt, Syria, and Arabia. Do you want anything from the dying world? From Dendera, Carnac, or that city of rock, lonely, silent, awful Petra?"

"Not I. The flavor of Sodom is too prevalent. But there are a few localities that I shall ask you to sketch for me."

Subsequently, Mr. Lockhart requested Beulah to sing her forest song for him again. The blood surged quickly into her face, and, not without confusion, she begged him to excuse her. He insisted, and tried to draw her from her seat; but, sinking further back into the corner, she assured him she could not; she never sang, except when alone. Dr. Hartwell smiled, and, looking at her curiously, said:

"I never heard her even attempt to sing. Beulah, why will you not try to oblige him?"

"Oh, sir! my songs are all connected with sorrows. I could not sing them now; indeed, I could not." And as the memory of Lilly, hushed by her lullaby, rose vividly before her, she put her hands over her eyes and wept quietly.

"When you come home from your Oriental jaunt, she will be able to comply with your request. Meantime, Percy, come into the study; I want a cigar and game of chess."

Beulah quitted the parlor at the same time, and was mounting the steps, when she heard Mr. Lockhart ask:

"Guy, what are you going to do with that solemn-looking child?"

"Going to try to show her that the world is not altogether made up of brutes." She heard no more; but, long after she laid her head upon the pillow, pondered on the kind fate which gave her so considerate, so generous a guardian; and, in the depths of her gratitude, she vowed to show him that she reverenced and honored him.



CHAPTER XIII

Three years passed swiftly, unmarked by any incidents of interest, and one dreary night in December Beulah sat in Dr. Hartwell's study, wondering what detained him so much, later than usual. The lamp stood on the tea-table, and the urn awaited the master's return. The room, with its books, statues, paintings, and melodeon, was unaltered, but time had materially changed the appearance of the orphan. She had grown tall, and the mazarine blue merino dress fitted the slender form with scrupulous exactness. The luxuriant black hair was combed straight back from the face, and wound into a circular knot, which covered the entire back of the head, and gave a classical outline to the whole. The eyelashes were longer and darker, the complexion had lost its sickly hue, and, though there was no bloom on the cheeks, they were clear and white. I have spoken before of the singular conformation of the massive brow, and now the style in which she wore her hair fully exposed the outline. The large gray eyes had lost their look of bitterness, but more than ever they were grave, earnest, restless, and searching; indexing a stormy soul. The whole countenance betokened that rare combination of mental endowments, that habitual train of deep, concentrated thought, mingled with somewhat dark passion, which characterizes the eagerly inquiring mind that struggles to lift itself far above common utilitarian themes. The placid element was as wanting in her physiognomy as in her character, and even the lines of the mouth gave evidence of strength and restlessness, rather than peace. Before her lay a book on geometry, and, engrossed by study, she was unobservant of Dr. Hartwell's entrance. Walking up to the grate, he warmed his fingers, and then, with his hands behind him, stood still on the rug, regarding his protegee attentively. He looked precisely as he had done more than three years before, when he waited at Mrs. Martin's, watching little Johnny and his nurse. The colorless face seemed as if chiseled out of ivory, and stern gravity, blended with bitterness, was enthroned on the lofty, unfurrowed brow. He looked at the girl intently, as he would have watched a patient to whom he had administered a dubious medicine and felt some curiosity concerning the result.

"Beulah, put up your book and make the tea, will you?"

She started up, and, seating herself before the urn, said joyfully:

"Good-evening! I did not know you had come home. You look cold, sir."

"Yes, it is deucedly cold; and, to mend the matter, Mazeppa must needs slip on the ice in the gutter and lame himself. Knew, too, I should want him again to-night." He drew a chair to the table and received his tea from her hand, for it was one of his whims to dismiss Mrs. Watson and the servants at this meal, and have only Beulah present.

"Who is so ill as to require a second visit to-night?"

She very rarely asked anything relative to his professional engagements, but saw that he was more than usually interested.

"Why, that quiet little Quaker friend of yours, Clara Sanders, will probably lose her grandfather this time. He had a second paralytic stroke to-day, and I doubt whether he survives till morning."

"Are any of Clara's friends with her?" asked Beulah quickly.

"Some two or three of the neighbors. What now?" he continued as she rose from the table.

"I am going to get ready and go with you when you return."

"Nonsense! The weather is too disagreeable; and, besides, you can do no good; the old man is unconscious. Don't think of it."

"But I must think of it, and what is more, you must carry me, if you please. I shall not mind the cold, and I know Clara would rather have me with her, even though I could render no assistance. Will you carry me? I shall thank you very much." She stood on the threshold.

"And if I will not carry you?" he answered questioningly.

"Then, sir, though sorry to disobey you, I shall be forced to walk there."

"So I supposed. You may get ready."

"Thank you." She hurried off to wrap up for the ride and acquaint Mrs. Watson with the cause of her temporary absence. On re-entering the study she found the doctor lying on the sofa, with one hand over his eyes. Without removing it he tossed a letter to her, saying:

"There is a letter from Heidelberg. I had almost forgotten it. You will have time to read it; the buggy is not ready." He moved his fingers slightly, so as to see her distinctly, while she tore off the envelope and perused it. At first she looked pleased; then the black eyebrows met over the nose, and as she refolded it there was a very decided curl in the compressed upper lip. She put it into her pocket without comment.

"Eugene is well, I suppose?" said the doctor, still shading his eyes.

"Yes, sir; quite well."

"Does he seem to be improving his advantages?"

"I should judge not, from the tone of this letter."

"What does it indicate?"

"That he thinks of settling down into mercantile life on his return; as if he needed to go to Germany to learn to keep books." She spoke hastily and with much chagrin.

"And why not? Germany is par excellence the land of book-making, and book-reading; why not of bookkeeping?"

"German proficiency is not the question, sir."

Dr. Hartwell smiled, and, passing his fingers through his hair, replied:

"You intend to annihilate that plebeian project of his, then?"

"His own will must govern him, sir; over that I have no power."

"Still you will use your influence in favor of a learned profession?"

"Yes, sir; if I have any."

"Take care your ambitious pride does not ruin you both. There is the buggy. Be so good as to give me my fur gauntlets out of the drawer of my desk. That will do; come."

The ride was rather silent. Beulah spoke several times, but was answered in a manner which informed her that her guardian was in a gloomy mood and did not choose to talk. He was to her as inexplicable as ever. She felt that the barrier which divided them, instead of melting away with long and intimate acquaintance, had strengthened and grown impenetrable. Kind but taciturn, she knew little of his opinions on any of the great questions which began to agitate her own mind. For rather more than three years they had spent their evenings together; she in studying, he in reading or writing. Of his past life she knew absolutely nothing, for no unguarded allusion to it ever escaped his lips. As long as she had lived in his house, he had never mentioned his wife's name, and but for his sister's words she would have been utterly ignorant of his marriage. Whether the omission was studied, or merely the result of abstraction, she could only surmise. Once, when sitting around the fire, a piece of crape fell upon the hearth from the shrouded portrait. He stooped down, picked it up, and, without glancing at the picture, threw the fragment into the grate. She longed to see the covered face, but dared not unfasten the sable folds, which had grown rusty with age. Sometimes she fancied her presence annoyed him; but if she absented herself at all during the evening he invariably inquired the cause. He had most scrupulously avoided all reference to matters of faith; she had endeavored several times to direct the conversation to religious topics, but he adroitly eluded her efforts, and abstained from any such discussion; and though on Sabbath she generally accompanied Mrs. Watson to church, he never alluded to it. Occasionally, when more than ordinarily fatigued by the labors of the day, he had permitted her to read aloud to him from some of his favorite volumes, and these brief glimpses had given her an intense longing to pursue the same paths of investigation. She revered and admired him; nay, she loved him; but it was more earnest gratitude than genuine affection. Love casteth out fear, and most certainly she feared him. She had entered her seventeenth year, and, feeling that she was no longer a child, her pride sometimes rebelled at the calm, commanding manner he maintained toward her.

They found Clara kneeling beside her insensible grandfather, while two or three middle-aged ladies sat near the hearth, talking in undertones. Beulah put her arms tenderly around her friend ere she was aware of her presence, and the cry of blended woe and gladness with which Clara threw herself on Beulah's bosom told her how well- timed that presence was. Three years of teaching and care had worn the slight young form, and given a troubled, strained, weary look to the fair face. Thin, pale, and tearful, she clung to Beulah, and asked, in broken accents, what would become of her when the aged sleeper was no more.

"Our good God remains to you, Clara. I was a shorn lamb, and he tempered the winds for me. I was very miserable, but he did not forsake me."

Clara looked at the tall form of the physician, and, while her eyes rested upon him with a species of fascination, she murmured:

"Yes, you have been blessed indeed! You have him. He guards and cares for your happiness; but I, oh, I am alone!"

"You told me he had promised to be your friend. Best assured he will prove himself such," answered Beulah, watching Clara's countenance as she spoke.

"Yes, I know; but—" She paused, and averted her head, for just then he drew near and said gravely:

"Beulah, take Miss Clara to her own room, and persuade her to rest. I shall remain probably all night; at least until some change takes place."

"Don't send me away," pleaded Clara mournfully.

"Go, Beulah; it is for her own good." She saw that he was unrelenting, and complied without opposition. In the seclusion of her room she indulged in a passionate burst of grief, and, thinking it was best thus vented, Beulah paced up and down the floor, listening now to the convulsive sobs, and now to the rain which pelted the window-panes. She was two years younger than her companion, yet felt that she was immeasurably stronger. Often during their acquaintance a painful suspicion had crossed her mind; as often she had banished it, but now it haunted her with a pertinacity which she could not subdue. While her feet trod the chamber floor, memory trod the chambers of the past, and gathered up every link which could strengthen the chain of evidence. Gradually dim conjecture became sad conviction, and she was conscious of a degree of pain and sorrow for which she could not readily account. If Clara loved Dr. Hartwell, why should it grieve her? Her step grew nervously rapid, and the eyes settled upon the carpet with a fixedness of which she was unconscious. Suppose he was double her age, if Clara loved him notwithstanding, what business was it of hers? Besides, no one would dream of the actual disparity in years, for he was a very handsome man, and certainly did not look more than ten years older. True, Clara was not very intellectual, and he was particularly fond of literary pursuits; but had not she heard him say that it was a singular fact in anthropology that men selected their opposites for wives? She did not believe her guardian ever thought of Clara save when in her presence. But how did she know anything about his thoughts and fancies, his likes and dislikes? He had never even spoken of his marriage—was it probable that the subject of a second love would have escaped him? All this passed rapidly in her mind, and when Clara called her to sit down on the couch beside her, she started as from a painful dream. While her friend talked sadly of the future, Beulah analyzed her features, and came to the conclusion that it would be a very easy matter to love her; the face was so sweet and gentle, the manner so graceful, the tone so musical and winning. Absorbed in thought, neither noted the lapse of time. Midnight passed; two o'clock came; and then at three a knock startled the watchers. Clara sprang to the door; Dr. Hartwell pointed to the sickroom, and said gently:

"He has ceased to suffer. He is at rest."

She looked at him vacantly an instant, and whispered, under her breath: "He is not dead?"

He did not reply, and, with a frightened expression, she glided into the chamber of death, calling piteously on the sleeper to come back and shield her. Beulah would have followed, but the doctor detained her.

"Not yet, child. Not yet."

As if unconscious of the act, he passed his arm around her shoulders, and drew her close to him. She looked up in astonishment, but his eyes were fixed on the kneeling figure in the room opposite, and she saw that, just then, he was thinking of anything else than her presence.

"Are you going home now, sir?"

"Yes; but you must stay with that poor girl yonder. Can't you prevail on her to come and spend a few days with you?"

"I rather think not," answered Beulah, resolved not to try.

"You look pale, my child. Watching is not good for you. It is a long time since you have seen death. Strange that people will not see it as it is. Passing strange."

"What do you mean?" said she, striving to interpret the smile that wreathed his lips.

"You will not believe if I tell you. 'Life is but the germ of Death, and Death the development of a higher Life.'"

"Higher in the sense of heavenly immortality?"

"You may call it heavenly if you choose. Stay here till the funeral is over, and I will send for you. Are you worn out, child?" He had withdrawn his arm, and now looked anxiously at her colorless face.

"No, sir."

"Then why are you so very pale?"

"Did you ever see me, sir, when I was anything else?"

"I have seen you look less ghostly. Good-by." He left the house without even shaking hands.

The day which succeeded was very gloomy, and, after the funeral rites had been performed, and the second day looked in, Beulah's heart rejoiced at the prospect of returning home. Clara shrank from the thought of being left alone, the little cottage was so desolate. She would give it up now, of course, and find a cheap boarding house; but the furniture must be rubbed and sent down to an auction room, and she dreaded the separation from all the objects which linked her with the past.

"Clara, I have been commissioned to invite you to spend several days with me, until you can select a boarding house. Dr. Hartwell will be glad to have you come."

"Did he say so?" asked the mourner, shading her face with her hand.

"He told me I must bring you home with me," answered Beulah.

"Oh, how good, how noble he is! Beulah, you are lucky, lucky indeed." She dropped her head on her arms.

"Clara, I believe there is less difference in our positions than you seem to imagine. We are both orphans, and in about a year I too shall be a teacher. Dr. Hartwell is my guardian and protector, but he will be a kind friend to you also."

"Beulah, you are mad to dream of leaving him and turning teacher! I am older than you, and have traveled over the very track that you are so eager to set out upon. Oh, take my advice; stay where you are! Would you leave summer sunshine for the icebergs of Arctic night? Silly girl, appreciate your good fortune."

"Can it be possible, Clara, that you are fainting so soon? Where are all your firm resolves? If it is your duty, what matter the difficulties?" She looked down pityingly on her companion, as in olden time one of the athletae might have done upon a drooping comrade.

"Necessity knows no conditions, Beulah. I have no alternative but to labor in that horrible treadmill round, day after day. You are more fortunate; can have a home of elegance, luxury, and—"

"And dependence! Would you be willing to change places with me, and indolently wait for others to maintain you?" interrupted Beulah, looking keenly at the wan, yet lovely, face before her.

"Ah, gladly, if I had been selected as you were. Once I too felt hopeful and joyous; but now life is dreary, almost a burden. Be warned, Beulah; don't suffer your haughty spirit to make you reject the offered home that may be yours."

There was a strong approach to contempt in the expression with which Beulah regarded her, as the last words were uttered, and she answered coldly:

"You are less a woman than I thought you, if you would be willing to live on the bounty of others when a little activity would enable you to support yourself."

"Ah, Beulah! it is not only the bread you eat, or the clothes that you wear; it is sympathy and kindness, love and watchfulness. It is this that a woman wants. Oh, was her heart made, think you, to be filled with grammars and geographies and copy-books? Can the feeling that you are independent and doing your duty satisfy the longing for other idols? Oh, Duty is an icy shadow! It will freeze you. It cannot fill the heart's sanctuary. Woman was intended as a pet plant, to be guarded and cherished; isolated and uncared for, she droops, languishes, and dies." Ah! the dew-sparkle had exhaled and the morning glory had vanished; the noontide heat of the conflict was creeping on, and she was sinking down, impotent to continue the struggle.

"Clara Sanders, I don't believe one word of all this languishing nonsense. As to my being nothing more nor less than a sickly geranium, I know better. If you have concluded that you belong to that dependent family of plants, I pity you sincerely, and beg that you will not put me in any such category. Duty may be a cold shadow to you, but it is a vast volcanic agency constantly impelling me to action. What was my will given to me for, if to remain passive and suffer others to minister to its needs? Don't talk to me about woman's clinging, dependent nature. You are opening your lips to repeat that senseless simile of oaks and vines; I don't want to hear it; there are no creeping tendencies about me. You can wind, and lean, and hang on somebody else if you like; but I feel more like one of those old pine trees yonder. I can stand up. Very slim, if you will, but straight and high. Stand by myself; battle with wind and rain and tempest roar; be swayed and bent, perhaps, in the storm, but stand unaided, nevertheless, I feel humbled when I hear a woman bemoaning the weakness of her sex, instead of showing that she has a soul and mind of her own inferior to none."

"All that sounds very heroic in the pages of a novel, but the reality is quite another matter. A tame, joyless, hopeless time you will have if you scorn good fortune, as you threaten, and go into the world to support yourself," answered Clara impatiently.

"I would rather struggle with her for a crust than hang on her garments asking a palace. I don't know what has come over you. You are strangely changed!" cried Beulah, pressing her hands on her friend's shoulders.

"The same change will come over you when you endure what I have. With all your boasted strength, you are but a woman; have a woman's heart, and one day will be unable to hush its hungry cries."

"Then I will crush it, so help me Heaven!" answered Beulah.

"No! sorrow will do that time enough; no suicidal effort will be necessary." For the first time Beulah marked an expression of bitterness in the usually gentle, quiet countenance. She was pained more than she chose to evince, and, seeing Dr. Hartwell's carriage at the door, prepared to return home.

"Tell him that I am very grateful for his kind offer; that his friendly remembrance is dear to a bereaved orphan. Ah, Beulah! I have known him from my childhood, and he has always been a friend as well as a physician. During my mother's long illness he watched her carefully and constantly, and when we tendered him the usual recompense for his services he refused all remuneration, declaring he had only been a friend. He knew we were poor, and could ill afford any expense. Oh, do you wonder that I—Are you going immediately? Come often when I get to a boarding house. Do, Beulah! I am so desolate; so desolate!" She bowed her head on Beulah's shoulder and wept unrestrainedly.

"Yes, I will come as often as I can; and, Clara, do try to cheer up. I can't bear to see you sink down in this way." She kissed the tearful face and hurried away.

It was Saturday, and, retiring to her own room, she answered Eugene's brief letter. Long before she had seen with painful anxiety that he wrote more and more rarely, and, while his communications clearly conveyed the impression that he fancied they were essential to her happiness, the protective tenderness of early years gave place to a certain commanding yet condescending tone. Intuitively perceiving, yet unable to analyze this gradual revolution of feeling, Beulah was sometimes tempted to cut short the correspondence. But her long and ardent attachment drowned the whispers of wounded pride, and hallowed memories of his boyish love ever prevented an expression of the pain and wonder with which she beheld the alteration in his character. Unwilling to accuse him of the weakness which prompted much of his arrogance and egotism, her heart framed various excuses for his seeming coldness. At first she had written often, and without reference to ordinary epistolary debts; but now she regularly waited (and that for some time) for the arrival of his letters; not from a diminution of affection so much as from true womanly delicacy, lest she should obtrude herself too frequently upon his notice. More than once she had been troubled by a dawning consciousness of her own superiority; but, accustomed for years to look up to him as a sort of infallible guide, she would not admit the suggestion, and tried to keep alive the admiring respect with which she had been wont to defer to his judgment. He seemed to consider his dogmatic dictation both acceptable and necessary, and it was this assumed mastery, unaccompanied with manifestations of former tenderness, which irritated and aroused her pride. With the brush of youthful imagination she had painted him as the future statesman—gifted, popular, and revered; and while visions of his fame and glory flitted before her the promise of sharing all with her was by no means the least fascinating feature in her fancy picture. Of late, however, he had ceased to speak of the choice of a profession, and mentioned vaguely Mr. Graham's wish that he should acquaint himself thoroughly with French, German, and Spanish, in order to facilitate the correspondence of the firm with foreign houses. She felt that once embarked on the sea of mercantile life he would have little leisure or inclination to pursue the paths which she hoped to travel by his side, and, on this occasion, her letter was longer and more earnest than usual, urging his adherence to the original choice of the law and using every forcible argument she could adduce. Finally the reply was sealed and directed, and she went down to the study to place it in the marble receiver which stood on her guardian's desk. Hal, who accompanied the doctor in his round of visits, always took their letters to the post office, and punctually deposited all directed to them in the vase. To her surprise she found no fire in the grate. The blinds were drawn closely, and, in placing her letter on the desk, she noticed several addressed to the doctor and evidently unopened. They must have arrived the day before, and while she wondered at the aspect of the room Harriet entered.

"Miss Beulah, do you know how long master expects to be gone? I thought maybe you could tell when you came home, for Mrs. Watson does not seem to know any more than I do."

"Gone! What do you mean?"

"Don't you know he has gone up the river to the plantation? Why, I packed his valise at daylight yesterday, and he left in the early morning boat. He has not been to the plantation since just before you came here. Hal says he heard him tell Dr. Asbury to take charge of his patients, that his overseer had to be looked after. He told me he was going to the plantation, and I would have asked him when he was coming back, but he was in one of his unsatisfactory ways— looked just like his mouth had been dipped in hot sealing-wax, so I held my tongue."

Beulah bit her lips with annoyance, but sat down before the melodeon, and said as unconcernedly as possible:

"I did not know he had left the city, and, of course, have no idea when he will be back. Harriet, please make me a fire here, or call Hal to do it."

"There is a good fire in the dining room; better go in there and sit with Mrs. Watson. She is busy seeding raisins for mincemeat and fruit-cake."

"No; I would rather stay here."

"Then I will kindle you a fire right away."

Harriet moved about the room with cheerful alacrity. She had always seemed to consider herself Beulah's special guardian and friend, and gave continual proof of the strength of her affection. Evidently she desired to talk about her master, but Beulah's face gave her no encouragement to proceed. She made several efforts to renew the conversation, but they were not seconded, and she withdrew, muttering to herself:

"She is learning all his ways. He does hate to talk any more than he can help, and she is patterning after him just as fast as she can. They don't seem to know what the Lord gave them tongues for."

Beulah practiced perseveringly for some time, and then, drawing a chair near the fire, sat down and leaned her head on her hand. She missed her guardian—wanted to see him—felt surprised at his sudden departure and mortified that he had not thought her of sufficient consequence to bid adieu to and be apprised of his intended trip. He treated her precisely as he did when she first entered the house; seemed to consider her a mere child, whereas she knew she was no longer such. He never alluded to her plan of teaching, and when she chanced to mention it he offered no comment, looked indifferent or abstracted. Though invariably kind, and sometimes humorous, there was an impenetrable reserve respecting himself, his past and future, which was never laid aside. When not engaged with his flowers or music, he was deep in some favorite volume, and, outside of these sources of enjoyment, seemed to derive no real pleasure. Occasionally he had visitors, but these were generally strangers, often persons residing at a distance, and Beulah knew nothing of them. Several times he had attended concerts and lectures, but she had never accompanied him; and frequently, when sitting by his side, felt as if a glacier lay between them. After Mrs. Chilton's departure for New York, where she and Pauline were boarding, no ladies ever came to the house, except a few of middle age, who called now and then to see Mrs. Watson, and, utterly isolated from society, Beulah was conscious of entire ignorance of all that passed in polite circles. Twice Claudia had called, but, unable to forget the past sufficiently to enter Mrs. Grayson's house, their intercourse had ended with Claudia's visits. Mrs. Watson was a kind- hearted and most excellent woman, who made an admirable housekeeper, but possessed few of the qualifications requisite to render her an agreeable companion. With an ambitious nature, and an eager thirst for knowledge, Beulah had improved her advantages as only those do who have felt the need of them. While she acquired, with unusual ease and rapidity, the branches of learning taught at school, she had availed herself of the extensive and select library, to which she had free access, and history, biography, travels, essays, and novels had been perused with singular avidity. Dr. Hartwell, without restricting her reading, suggested the propriety of incorporating more of the poetic element in her course. The hint was timely, and induced an acquaintance with the great bards of England and Germany, although her taste led her to select works of another character. Her secluded life favored habits of study, and, at an age when girls are generally just beginning to traverse the fields of literature, she had progressed so far as to explore some of the footpaths which entice contemplative minds from the beaten track. With earlier cultivation and superiority of years, Eugene had essayed to direct her reading; but now, in point of advancement, she felt that she was in the van. Dr. Hartwell had told her, whenever she was puzzled, to come to him for explanation, and his clear analysis taught her how immeasurably superior he was, even to those instructors whose profession it was to elucidate mysteries. Accustomed to seek companionship in books, she did not, upon the present occasion, long reflect on her guardian's sudden departure, but took from the shelves a volume of Poe which contained her mark. The parting rays of the winter sun grew fainter; the dull, somber light of vanishing day made the room dim, and it was only by means of the red glare from the glowing grate that she deciphered the print. Finally the lamp was brought in, and shed a mellow radiance over the dusky apartment. The volume was finished and dropped upon her lap. The spell of this incomparable sorcerer was upon her imagination; the sluggish, lurid tarn of Usher; the pale, gigantic water lilies, nodding their ghastly, everlasting heads over the dreary Zaire; the shrouding shadow of Helusion; the ashen skies, and sere, crisped leaves in the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir, hard by the dim lake of Auber—all lay with grim distinctness before her; and from the red bars of the grate the wild, lustrous, appalling eyes of Ligeia looked out at her, while the unearthly tones of Morella whispered from every corner of the room. She rose and replaced the book on the shelf, striving to shake off the dismal hold which all this phantasmagoria had taken on her fancy. Her eyes chanced to fall upon a bust of Athene which surmounted her guardian's desk, and immediately the mournful refrain of the Raven, solemn and dirge- like, floated through the air, enhancing the spectral element which enveloped her. She retreated to the parlor, and, running her fingers over the keys of the piano, endeavored by playing some of her favorite airs to divest her mind of the dreary, unearthly images which haunted it. The attempt was futile, and there in the dark, cold parlor she leaned her head against the piano, and gave herself up to the guidance of one who, like the "Ancient Mariner," holds his listener fascinated and breathless. Once her guardian had warned her not to study Poe too closely, but the book was often in his own hand, and, yielding to the matchless ease and rapidity of his diction, she found herself wandering in a wilderness of baffling suggestions. Under the drapery of "William Wilson," of "Morella," and "Ligeia," she caught tantalizing glimpses of recondite psychological truths and processes, which dimly hovered over her own consciousness, but ever eluded the grasp of analysis. While his unique imagery filled her mind with wondering delight, she shrank appalled from the mutilated fragments which he presented to her as truths, on the point of his glittering scalpel of logic. With the eagerness of a child clutching at its own shadow in a glassy lake, and thereby destroying it, she had read that anomalous prose poem "Eureka." The quaint humor of that "bottled letter" first arrested her attention, and, once launched on the sea of Cosmogonies, she was amazed at the seemingly infallible reasoning which, at the conclusion, coolly informed her that she was her own God. Mystified, shocked, and yet admiring, she had gone to Dr. Hartwell for a solution of the difficulty. False she felt the whole icy tissue to be, yet could not detect the adroitly disguised sophisms. Instead of assisting her, as usual, he took the book from her, smiled, and put it away, saying indifferently:

"You must not play with such sharp tools just yet. Go and practice your music lesson."

She was too deeply interested to be put off so quietly, and constantly pondered this singular production, which confirmed in some degree a fancy of her own concerning the pre-existence of the soul. Only on the hypothesis of an anterior life could she explain some of the mental phenomena which puzzled her. Heedless of her guardian's warning, she had striven to comprehend the philosophy of this methodical madman, and now felt bewildered and restless. This study of Poe was the portal through which she entered the vast Pantheon of Speculation.



CHAPTER XIV.

A week later, at the close of a dull winter day, Beulah sat as usual in the study. The large parlors and dining room had a desolate look at all times, and of the whole house only the study seemed genial. Busily occupied during the day, it was not until evening that she realized her guardian's absence. No tidings of him had been received, and she began to wonder at his prolonged stay. She felt very lonely without him, and, though generally taciturn, she missed him from the hearth, missed the tall form and the sad, stern face. Another Saturday had come, and all day she had been with Clara in her new home, trying to cheer the mourner and dash away the gloom that seemed settling down upon her spirits. At dusk she returned home, spent an hour at the piano, and now walked up and down the study, wrapt in thought. The room had a cozy, comfortable aspect; the fire burned brightly; the lamplight silvered the paintings and statues; and on the rug before the grate lay a huge black dog of the St. Bernard order, his shaggy head thrust between his paws. The large, intelligent eyes followed Beulah as she paced to and fro, and seemed mutely to question her restlessness. His earnest scrutiny attracted her notice, and she held out her hand, saying musingly:

"Poor Charon; you too miss your master. Charon, King of Shadows, when will he come?"

The great black eyes gazed intently into hers, and seemed to echo, "When will he come?" He lifted his grim head, snuffed the air, listened, and sullenly dropped his face on his paws again. Beulah threw herself on the rug, and laid her head on his thick neck; he gave a quick, short bark of satisfaction, and very soon both girl and dog were fast asleep. A quarter of an hour glided by, and then Beulah was suddenly roused by a violent motion of her pillow. Charon sprang up, and leaped frantically across the room. The comb which confined her hair had fallen out, and, gathering up the jetty folds which swept over her shoulders, she looked around. Dr. Hartwell was closing the door.