The ensuing week was one of anxious apprehension to all within the city. Harriet's words seemed prophetic; there was every intimation of a sickly season. Yellow fever had made its appearance in several sections of the town in its most malignant type. The board of health devised various schemes for arresting the advancing evil. The streets were powdered with lime and huge fires of tar kept constantly burning, yet daily, hourly, the fatality increased; and, as colossal ruin strode on, the terrified citizens fled in all directions. In ten days the epidemic began to make fearful havoc; all classes and ages were assailed indiscriminately. Whole families were stricken down in a day, and not one member spared to aid the others. The exodus was only limited by impossibility; all who could abandoned their homes and sought safety in flight. These were the fortunate minority; and, as if resolved to wreak its fury on the remainder, the contagion spread into every quarter of the city. Not even physicians were spared; and those who escaped trembled in anticipation of the fell stroke. Many doubted that it was yellow fever, and conjectured that the veritable plague had crossed the ocean. Of all Mrs. Hoyt's boarders, but half a dozen determined to hazard remaining in the infected region. These were Beulah, Clara, and four gentlemen. Gladly would Clara have fled to a place of safety, had it been in her power; but there was no one to accompany or watch over her, and as she was forced to witness the horrors of the season a sort of despair seemed to nerve her trembling frame. Mrs. Watson had been among the first to leave the city. Madam St. Cymon had disbanded her school; and, as only her three daughters continued to take music lessons, Beulah had ample leisure to contemplate the distressing scenes which surrounded her. At noon, one September day, she stood at the open window of her room. The air was intensely hot; the drooping leaves of the China trees were motionless; there was not a breath of wind stirring; and the sable plumes of the hearses were still as their burdens. The brazen, glittering sky seemed a huge glowing furnace, breathing out only scorching heat. Beulah leaned out of the window, and, wiping away the heavy drops that stood on her brow, looked down the almost deserted street. Many of the stores were closed; whilom busy haunts were silent; and very few persons were visible, save the drivers of two hearses and of a cart filled with coffins. The church bells tolled unceasingly, and the desolation, the horror, were indescribable, as the sable wings of the Destroyer hung over the doomed city. Out of her ten fellow-graduates, four slept in the cemetery. The night before she had watched beside another, and at dawn saw the limbs stiffen and the eyes grow sightless. Among her former schoolmates the contagion had been particularly fatal, and, fearless of danger, she had nursed two of them. As she stood fanning herself, Clara entered hurriedly, and, sinking into a chair, exclaimed, in accents of terror:

"It has come! as I knew it would! Two of Mrs. Hoyt's children have been taken, and, I believe, one of the waiters also! Merciful God! what will become of me?" Her teeth chattered, and she trembled from head to foot.

"Don't be alarmed, Clara! Your excessive terror is your greatest danger. If you would escape you must keep as quiet as possible."

She poured out a glass of water and made her drink it; then asked:

"Can Mrs. Hoyt get medical aid?"

"No; she has sent for every doctor in town, and not one has come."

"Then I will go down and assist her." Beulah turned toward the door, but Clara caught her dress, and said hoarsely:

"Are you mad, thus continually to put your life in jeopardy? Are you shod with immortality, that you thrust yourself into the very path of destruction?"

"I am not afraid of the fever, and therefore think I shall not take it. As long as I am able to be up I shall do all that I can to relieve the sick. Remember, Clara, nurses are not to be had now for any sum." She glided down the steps, and found the terrified mother wringing her hands helplessly over the stricken ones. The children were crying on the bed, and, with the energy which the danger demanded, Beulah speedily ordered the mustard baths, and administered the remedies she had seen prescribed on previous occasions. The fever rose rapidly, and, undaunted by thoughts of personal danger, she took her place beside the bed. It was past midnight when Dr. Asbury came; exhausted and haggard from unremitting toil and vigils, he looked several years older than when she had last seen him. He started on perceiving her perilous post, and said anxiously:

"Oh, you are rash! very rash! What would Hartwell say? What will he think when he comes?"

"Comes! Surely you have not urged him to come back now!" said she, grasping his arm convulsively.

"Certainly. I telegraphed to him to come home by express. You need not look so troubled; he has had this Egyptian plague, will run no risk, and, even if he should, will return as soon as possible."

"Are you sure that he has had the fever?"

"Yes, sure. I nursed him myself, the summer after he came from Europe, and thought he would die. That was the last sickly season we have had for years, but this caps the climax of all I ever saw or heard of in America. Thank God, my wife and children are far away; and, free from apprehension on their account, I can do my duty."

All this was said in an undertone, and, after advising everything that could possibly be done, he left the room, beckoning Beulah after him. She followed, and he said earnestly:

"Child, I tremble for you. Why did you leave Hartwell's house and incur all this peril? Beulah, though it is nobly unselfish in you to devote yourself to the sick, as you are doing, it may cost you your life—nay, most probably it will."

"I have thought of it all, sir, and determined to do my duty."

"Then God preserve you. Those children have been taken violently; watch them closely; good nursing is worth all the apothecary shops. You need not send for me any more; I am out constantly; whenever I can I will come; meantime, depend only on the nursing. Should you be taken yourself, let me know at once; do not fail. A word more—keep yourself well stimulated."

He hurried away, and she returned to the sickroom, to speculate on the probability of soon meeting her guardian. Who can tell how dreary were the days and nights that followed? Mrs. Hoyt took the fever, and mother and children moaned together. On the morning of the fourth day the eldest child, a girl of eight years, died, with Beulah's hand grasped in hers. Happily, the mother was unconscious, and the little corpse was borne into an adjoining room. Beulah shrank from the task which she felt for the first time in her life called on to perform. She could nurse the living, but dreaded the thought of shrouding the dead. Still, there was no one else to do it, and she bravely conquered her repugnance, and clad the young sleeper for the tomb. The gentlemen boarders, who had luckily escaped, arranged the mournful particulars of the burial; and, after severing a sunny lock of hair for the mother, should she live, Beulah saw the cold form borne out to its last resting-place. Another gloomy day passed slowly, and she was rewarded by the convalescence of the remaining sick child. Mrs. Hoyt still hung upon the confines of eternity; and Beulah, who had not closed her eyes for many nights, was leaning over the bed counting the rushing pulse, when a rapid step caused her to look up, and, falling forward in her arms, Clara cried:

"Save me! save me! The chill is on me now!"

It was too true; and as Beulah assisted her to her room and carefully bathed her feet, her heart was heavy with dire dread lest Clara's horror of the disease should augment its ravages. Dr. Asbury was summoned with all haste; but, as usual, seemed an age in coming, and when at last he came could only prescribe what had already been done. It was pitiable to watch the agonized expression of Clara's sweet face, as she looked from the countenance of the physician to that of her friend, striving to discover their opinion of her case.

"Doctor, you must send Hal to me. He can nurse Mrs. Hoyt and little Willie while I watch Clara. I can't possibly take care of all three, though Willie is a great deal better. Can you send him at once? He is a good nurse."

"Yes; he has been nursing poor Tom Hamil, but he died about an hour ago, and Hal is released. I look for Hartwell hourly. You do keep up amazingly! Bless you, Beulah!" Wringing her hand, he descended the stairs.

Re-entering the room Beulah sat down beside Clara, and taking one burning hand in her cool palms, pressed it softly, saying in an encouraging tone:

"I feel so much relieved about Willie; he is a great deal better; and I think Mrs. Hoyt's fever is abating. You were not taken so severely as Willie, and if you will go to sleep quietly I believe you will only have a light attack."

"Did those downstairs have black vomit?" asked Clara shudderingly.

"Lizzie had it; the others did not. Try not to think about it. Go to sleep."

"What was that the doctor said about Dr. Hartwell? I could not hear very well, you talked so low. Ah, tell me, Beulah."

"Only that he is coming home soon—that was all. Don't talk any more."

Clara closed her eyes, but tears stole from beneath the lashes and coursed rapidly down her glowing cheeks. The lips moved in prayer, and her fingers closed tightly over those of her companion. Beulah felt that her continued vigils and exertions were exhausting her. Her limbs trembled when she walked, and there was a dull pain in her head which she could not banish. Her appetite had long since forsaken her, and it was only by the exertion of a determined will that she forced herself to eat. She was warmly attached to Clara, and the dread of losing this friend caused her to suffer keenly. Occasionally she stole away to see the other sufferers, fearing that when Mrs. Hoyt discovered Lizzie's death the painful intelligence would seal her own fate. It was late at night. She had just returned from one of these hasty visits, and, finding that Hal was as attentive as anyone could be, she threw herself, weary and anxious, into an armchair beside Clara's bed. The crimson face was turned toward her, the parched lips parted, the panting breath labored and irregular. The victim was delirious; the hazel eyes, inflamed and vacant, rested on Beulah's countenance, and she murmured:

"He will never know! Oh, no! how should he? The grave will soon shut me in, and I shall see him no more—no more!" She shuddered and turned away.

Beulah leaned her head against the bed, and, as a tear slid down upon her hand, she thought and said with bitter sorrow:

"I would rather see her the victim of death than have her drag out an aimless, cheerless existence, rendered joyless by this hopeless attachment!"

She wondered whether Dr. Hartwell suspected this love. He was remarkably quick-sighted, and men, as well as women, were very vain and wont to give even undue weight to every circumstance which flattered their self-love. She had long seen this partiality; would not the object of it be quite as penetrating? Clara was very pretty; nay, at times she was beautiful. If conscious of her attachment, could he ever suffer himself to be influenced by it? No; impossible! There were utter antagonisms of taste and temperament which rendered it very certain that she would not suit him for a companion. Yet she was very lovable. Beulah walked softly across the room and leaned out of the window. An awful stillness brooded over the city.

"The moving moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide; Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside."

The soft beams struggled to pierce the murky air, dense with smoke from the burning pitch. There was no tread on the pavement—all was solemn as Death, who held such mad revel in the crowded graveyards. Through the shroud of smoke she could see the rippling waters of the bay, as the faint southern breeze swept its surface. It was a desolation realizing all the horrors of the "Masque of the Red Death," and as she thought of the mourning hearts in that silent city, of Clara's danger and her own, Beulah repeated sadly those solemn lines:

"'Like clouds that rake the mountain summit, Or waves that own no curbing hand, How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!'"

Clasping her hands, she added earnestly:

"I thank thee, my Father! that the Atlantic rolls between Eugene and this 'besom of destruction.'"

A touch on her shoulder caused her to look around, and her eyes rested on her guardian. She started, but did not speak, and held out her hand. He looked at her long and searchingly; his lip trembled, and, instead of taking her offered hand, he passed his arm around her and drew her to his bosom. She looked up with surprise; and, bending his haughty head, he kissed her pale brow for the first time. She felt then that she would like to throw her arms round his neck and tell him how very glad she was to see him again—how unhappy his sudden departure had made her; but a feeling she could not pause to analyze prevented her from following the dictates of her heart; and, holding her off, so as to scan her countenance, Dr. Hartwell said:

"How worn and haggard you look! Oh, child! your rash obstinacy has tortured me beyond expression."

"I have but done my duty. It has been a horrible time. I am glad you have come. You will not let Clara die."

"Sit down, child. You are trembling from exhaustion."

He drew up a chair for her, and, taking her wrist in his hand, said, as he examined the slow pulse:

"Was Clara taken violently? How is she?"

"She is delirious, and so much alarmed at her danger that I feel very uneasy about her. Come and see her; perhaps she will know you." She led the way to the bedside; but there was no recognition in the wild, restless eyes, and as she tossed from side to side, her incoherent muttering made Beulah dread lest she should discover to its object the adoring love which filled her pure heart. She told her guardian what had been prescribed. He offered no suggestion as to the treatment, but gave a potion which she informed him was due. As Clara swallowed the draught, she looked at him, and said eagerly:

"Has he come? Did he say he would see me and save me? Did Dr. Hartwell send me this?"

"She raves," said Beulah hastily.

A shadow fell upon his face, and, stooping over the pillow, he answered very gently:

"Yes; he has come to save you. He is here."

She smiled, and seemed satisfied for a moment; then moaned and muttered on indistinctly.

"He knows it all? Oh, poor, poor Clara!" thought Beulah. shading her face to prevent his reading what passed in her mind.

"How long have you been sitting up, Beulah?"

She told him.

"It is no wonder you look as if years had suddenly passed over your head! You have a room here, I believe. Go to it, and go to sleep; I will not leave Clara."

It was astonishing how his presence removed the dread weight of responsibility from her heart. Not until this moment had she felt as if she could possibly sleep.

"I will sleep now, so as to be refreshed for to-morrow and to-morrow night. Here is a couch; I will sleep here, and if Clara grows worse you must wake me." She crossed the room, threw herself on the couch, and laid her aching head on her arm. Dr. Hartwell placed a pillow under the head; once more his fingers sought her wrist; once more his lips touched her forehead, and as he returned to watch beside Clara and listen to her ravings, Beulah sank into a heavy, dreamless sleep of exhaustion.



CHAPTER XVIII.

She was awakened by the cool pattering of raindrops, which beat through the shutters and fell upon her face. She sprang up with a thrill of delight and looked out. A leaden sky lowered over the city, and as the torrents came down in whitening sheets, the thunder rolled continuously overhead, and trailing wreaths of smoke from the dying fires drooped like banners over the roofs of the houses. Not the shower which gathered and fell around seagirt Carmel was more gratefully received.

"Thank God! it rains!" cried Beulah, and, turning toward Clara, she saw with pain that the sufferer was all unconscious of the tardy blessing. She kissed the hot, dry brow; but no token of recognition greeted her anxious gaze. The fever was at its height; the delicate features were strangely sharpened and distorted. Save the sound of her labored breathing, the room was silent, and, sinking on her knees, Beulah prayed earnestly that the gentle sufferer might be spared. As she rose her guardian entered, and she started at the haggard, wasted, harassed look of the noble face, which she had not observed before. He bent down and coaxed Clara to take a spoonful of medicine, and Beulah asked earnestly:

"Have you been ill, sir?"

"No."

He did not even glance at her. The affectionate cordiality of the hour of meeting had utterly vanished. He looked as cold, stern, and impenetrable as some half-buried sphinx of the desert.

"Have you seen the others this morning?" said she, making a strong effort to conceal the chagrin this revulsion of feeling occasioned.

"Yes; Mrs. Hoyt will get well."

"Does she know of her child's death?"

"Yes."

"You are not going, surely?" she continued, as he took his hat and glanced at his watch.

"I am needed elsewhere. Only nursing can now avail here. You know very well what is requisite. Either Dr. Asbury or I will be here again to-night to sit up with this gentle girl."

"You need neither of you come to sit up with her. I will do that myself. I shall not sleep another moment until I know that she is better."

"Very well." He left the room immediately.

"How he cases his volcanic nature in ice!" thought Beulah, sinking into the armchair. "Last night he seemed so kind, so cordial, so much my friend and guardian! To-day there is a mighty barrier, as though he stood on some towering crag and talked to me across an infinite gulf! Well, well, even an Arctic night passes away; and I can afford to wait till his humor changes."

For many hours the rain fell unceasingly, but toward sunset the pall of clouds was scourged on by a brisk western breeze, and the clear canopy of heaven, no longer fiery as for days past, but cool and blue, bent serenely over the wet earth. The slanting rays of the swiftly sinking sun flashed through dripping boughs, creating myriads of diamond sprays; and over the sparkling waters of the bay sprang a brilliant bow, arching superbly along the eastern horizon, where a bank of clouds still lay. Verily, it seemed a new covenant that the destroying demon should no longer desolate the beautiful city, and to many an anxious, foreboding heart that glorious rainbow gave back hope and faith. A cool, quiet twilight followed. Beulah knew that hearses still bore the dead to their silent chambers; she could hear the rumbling, the melancholy, solemn sound of the wheels; but firm trust reigned in her heart, and, with Clara's hand in hers, she felt an intuitive assurance that the loved one would not yet be summoned from her earthly field of action. The sick in the other part of the house were much better, and, though one of the gentlemen boarders had been taken since morning, she lighted the lamp and stole about the room with a calmer, happier spirit than she had known for many days. She fancied that her charge breathed more easily, and the wild stare of the inflamed eyes was concealed under the long lashes which lay on the cheeks. The sufferer slept, and the watcher augured favorably. About nine o'clock she heard steps on the stairs, and soon after Drs. Asbury and Hartwell entered together. There was little to be told, and less to be advised, and while the latter attentively examined the pulse and looked down at the altered countenance, stamped with the signet of the dread disease, the former took Beulah's hand in both his, and said kindly:

"How do you do, my little heroine? By Nebros! you are worth your weight in medical treatises. How are you, little one?"

"Quite well, thank you, sir, and I dare say I am much more able to sit up with the sick than you, who have had no respite whatever. Don't stand up, when you must be so weary; take this easy-chair." Holding his hand firmly, she drew him down to it. There had always been a fatherly tenderness in his manner toward her, when visiting at her guardian's, and she regarded him with reverence and affection. Though often blunt, he never chilled nor repelled her, as his partner so often did, and now she stood beside him, still holding one of his hands. He smoothed back the gray hair from his furrowed brow, and, with a twinkle in his blue eye, said:

"How much will you take for your services? I want to engage you to teach my madcap daughters a little quiet bravery and uncomplaining endurance."

"I have none of the Shylock in my composition; only give me a few kind words and I shall be satisfied. Now, once for all, Dr. Asbury, if you treat me to any more barefaced flattery of this sort, I nurse no more of your patients."

Dr. Hartwell here directed his partner's attention to Clara, and, thoroughly provoked at the pertinacity with which he avoided noticing her, she seized the brief opportunity to visit Mrs. Hoyt and little Willie. The mother welcomed her with a silent grasp of the hand and a gush of tears. But this was no time for acknowledgments, and Beulah strove, by a few encouraging remarks, to cheer the bereaved parent and interest Willie, who, like all other children under such circumstances, had grown fretful. She shook up their pillows, iced a fresh pitcher of water for them, and, promising to run down and see them often, now that Hal was forced to give his attention to the last victim, she noiselessly stole back to Clara's room. Dr. Hartwell was walking up and down the floor, and his companion sat just as she had left him. He rose as she entered, and, putting on his hat, said kindly:

"Are you able to sit up with Miss Sanders to-night? If not, say so candidly."

"I am able and determined to do so."

"Very well. After to-morrow it will not be needed."

"What do you mean?" cried Beulah, clutching his arm.

"Don't look so savage, child. She will either be convalescent or beyond all aid. I hope and believe the former. Watch her closely till I see you again. Good-night, dear child." He stepped to the door, and, with a slight inclination of his head, Dr. Hartwell followed him.

It was a vigil Beulah never forgot. The night seemed interminable, as if the car of time were driven backward, and she longed inexpressibly for the dawning of day. Four o'clock came at last; silence brooded over the town; the western breeze had sung itself to rest, and there was a solemn hush, as though all nature stood still to witness the struggle between dusky Azrael and a human soul. Clara slept. The distant stars looked down encouragingly from their homes of blue, and once more the lonely orphan bent her knee in supplication before the throne of Jehovah. But a cloud seemed hovering between her heart and the presence-chamber of Deity. In vain she prayed, and tried to believe that life would be spared in answer to her petitions. Faith died in her soul, and she sat with her eyes riveted upon the face of her friend. The flush of consuming fever paled, the pulse was slow and feeble, and by the gray light of day Beulah saw that the face was strangely changed. For several hours longer she maintained her watch; still the doctor did not come, and while she sat with Clara's fingers clasped in her, the brown eyes opened, and looked dreamily at her. She leaned over and, kissing the wan cheek, asked eagerly:

"How do you feel, darling?"

"Perfectly weak and helpless. How long have I been sick?"

"Only a few days. You are a great deal better now." She tenderly smoothed the silky hair that clustered in disorder round the face. Clara seemed perplexed; she thought for a moment, and said feebly:

"Have I been very ill?"

"Well—yes. You have been right sick. Had some fever, but it has left you."

Clara mused again. Memory came back slowly, and at length she asked:

"Did they all die?"

"Did who die?"

"All those downstairs." She shuddered violently.

"Oh, no! Mrs. Hoyt and Willie are almost well. Try to go to sleep again, Clara."

Several minutes glided by; the eyes closed, and, clasping Beulah's fingers tightly, she asked again:

"Have I had any physician?"

"Yes. I thought it would do no harm to have Dr. Asbury see you," answered Beulah carelessly. She saw an expression of disappointment pass sadly over the girl's countenance; and, thinking it might be as well to satisfy her at once, she continued, as if speaking on indifferent topics:

"Dr. Hartwell came home since you were taken sick, and called to see you two or three times."

A faint glow tinged the sallow cheek, and while a tremor crept over her lips she said almost inaudibly:

"When will he come again?"

"Before long, I dare say. Indeed, there is his step now. Dr. Asbury is with him."

She had not time to say more, for they came in immediately, and, with a species of pity she noted the smile of pleasure which curved Clara's mouth as her guardian bent down and spoke to her. While he took her thin hand and fixed his eyes on her face, Dr. Asbury looked over his shoulder, and said bluntly:

"Hurrah for you! All right again, as I thought you would be! Does your head ache at all this morning? Feel like eating half a dozen partridges?"

"She is not deaf," said Dr. Hartwell rather shortly.

"I am not so sure of that; she has been to all my questions lately. I must see about Carter, below. Beulah, child, you look the worse for your apprenticeship to our profession."

"So do you, sir," said she, smiling as her eyes wandered over his grim visage.

"You may well say that, child. I snatched about two hours' sleep this morning, and when I woke I felt very much like Coleridge's unlucky sailor:

"'I moved, and could not feel my limbs; I was so light—almost, I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed ghost.'"

He hurried away to another part of the house, and Beulah went into her own apartment to arrange her hair, which she felt must need attention sadly.

Looking into the glass she could not forbear smiling at the face which looked back at her, it was so thin and ghastly; even the lips were colorless and the large eyes sunken. She unbound her hair, and had only shaken it fully out, when a knock at her door called her from the glass. She tossed her hair all back, and it hung like an inky veil almost to the floor, as she opened the door and confronted her guardian.

"Here is some medicine which must be mixed in a tumbler of water. I want a tablespoonful given every hour, unless Clara is asleep. Keep everything quiet."

"Is that all?" said Beulah coolly.

"That is all." He walked off, and she brushed and twisted up her hair, wondering how long he meant to keep up that freezing manner. It accorded very well with his treatment before his departure for the North, and she sighed as she recalled the brief hour of cordiality which followed his return. She began to perceive that this was the way they were to meet in future; she had displeased him, and he intended that she should feel it. Tears gathered in her eyes, but she drove them scornfully back, and exclaimed indignantly:

"He wants to rule me with a rod of iron, because I am indebted to him for an education and support for several years. As I hope for a peaceful rest hereafter, I will repay him every cent he has expended for music, drawing, and clothing! I will economize until every picayune is returned."

The purse had not been touched, and, hastily counting the contents to see that all the bills were there, she relocked the drawer and returned to the sickroom with anything but a calm face. Clara seemed to be asleep, and, picking up a book, Beulah began to read. A sickroom is always monotonous and dreary, and long confinement had rendered Beulah restless and uncomfortable. Her limbs ached—so did her head, and continued loss of sleep made her nervous to an unusual degree. She longed to open her melodeon and play; this would have quieted her, but of course was not to be thought of, with four invalids in the house and death on almost every square in the city. She was no longer unhappy about Clara, for there was little doubt that, with care, she would soon be well, and thus drearily the hours wore on. Finally Clara evinced a disposition to talk. Her nurse discouraged it, with exceedingly brief replies; intimating that she would improve her condition by going to sleep. Toward evening Clara seemed much refreshed by a long nap, and took some food which had been prepared for her.

"The sickness is abating, is it not, Beulah?"

"Yes, very perceptibly; but more from lack of fresh victims than anything else. I hope we shall have a white frost soon."

"It has been very horrible! I shudder when I think of it," said Clara.

"Then don't think of it," answered her companion.

"Oh, how can I help it? I did not expect to live through it. I was sure I should die when that chill came on. You have saved me, dear Beulah!" Tears glistened in her soft eyes.

"No; God saved you."

"Through your instrumentality," replied Clara, raising her friend's hand to her lips.

"Don't talk any more; the doctor expressly enjoined quiet for you."

"I am glad to owe my recovery to him also. How noble and good he is- -how superior to everybody else!" murmured the sick girl.

Beulah's lips became singularly compact, but she offered no comment. She walked up and down the room, although so worn out that she could scarcely keep herself erect. When the doctor came she escaped unobserved to her room, hastily put on her bonnet, and ran down the steps for a short walk. It was perfect Elysium to get out once more under the pure sky and breathe the air, as it swept over the bay, cool, sweet, and invigorating. The streets were still quiet, but hearses and carts, filled with coffins, no longer greeted her on every side, and she walked for several squares. The sun went down, and, too weary to extend her ramble, she slowly retraced her steps. The buggy no longer stood at the door, and, after seeing Mrs. Hoyt and trying to chat pleasantly, she crept back to Clara.

"Where have you been?" asked the latter.

"To get a breath of fresh air and see the sun set."

"Dr. Hartwell asked for you. I did not know what had become of you."

"How do you feel to-night?" said Beulah, laying her hand softly on Clara's forehead.

"Better, but very weak. You have no idea how feeble I am. Beulah, I want to know whether—"

"You were told to keep quiet, so don't ask any questions, for I will not answer one."

"You are not to sit up to-night; the doctor said I would not require it."

"Let the doctor go back to the North and theorize in his medical conventions! I shall sleep here by your bed, on this couch. If you feel worse, call me. Now, good-night; and don't open your lips again." She drew the couch close to the bed, and, shading the lamp, threw her weary frame down to rest; ere long she slept. The pestilential storm had spent its fury. Daily the number of deaths diminished; gradually the pall of silence and desolation which had hung over the city vanished. The streets resumed their usual busy aspect, and the hum of life went forward once more. At length fugitive families ventured home again; and though bands of crape, grim badges of bereavement, met the eye on all sides, all rejoiced that Death had removed his court—that his hideous carnival was over. Clara regained her strength very slowly; and when well enough to quit her room, walked with the slow, uncertain step of feebleness. On the last day of October she entered Beulah's apartment, and languidly approached the table, where the latter was engaged in drawing.

"Always at work! Beulah, you give yourself no rest. Day and night you are constantly busy."

Apparently this remark fell on deaf ears; for, without replying, Beulah lifted her drawing, looked at it intently, turned it round once or twice, and then resumed her crayon.

"What a hideous countenance! Who is it?" continued Clara.

"Mors."

"She is horrible! Where did you ever see anything like it?"

"During the height of the epidemic I fell asleep for a few seconds, and dreamed that Mors was sweeping down, with extended arms, to snatch you. By the clock I had not slept quite two minutes, yet the countenance of Mors was indelibly stamped on my memory, and now I am transferring it to paper. You are mistaken; it is terrible, but not hideous!" Beulah laid aside her pencil, and, leaning her elbows on the table, sat, with her face in her hands, gazing upon the drawing. It represented the head and shoulders of a winged female; the countenance was inflexible, grim, and cadaverous. The large, lurid eyes had an owlish stare; and the outspread pinions, black as night, made the wan face yet more livid by contrast. The extended hands were like those of a skeleton.

"What strange fancies you have! It makes the blood curdle in my veins to look at that awful countenance," said Clara shudderingly.

"I cannot draw it as I saw it in my dream! Cannot do justice to my ideal Mors!" answered Beulah, in a discontented tone, as she took up the crayon and retouched the poppies which clustered in the sable locks.

"For Heaven's sake, do not attempt to render it any more horrible! Put it away, and finish this lovely Greek face. Oh, how I envy you your talent for music and drawing! Nature gifted you rarely!"

"No! she merely gave me an intense love of beauty, which constantly impels me to embody, in melody or coloring, the glorious images which the contemplation of beauty creates in my soul. Alas! I am not a genius. If I were I might hope to achieve an immortal renown. Gladly would I pay its painful and dangerous price!" She placed the drawing of Mors in her portfolio and began to touch lightly an unfinished head of Sappho.

"Ah, Clara, how connoisseurs would carp at this portrait of the 'Lesbian Muse'! My guardian, for one, would sneer, superbly."

"Why, pray? It is perfectly beautiful!"

"Because, forsooth, it is no low-browed, swarthy Greek. I have a penchant for high, broad, expansive foreheads, which are antagonistic to all the ancient models of beauty. Low foreheads characterize the antique; but who can fancy 'violet-crowned, immortal Sappho,'

"'With that gloriole Of ebon hair, on calmed brows,'

other than I have drawn her!" She held up the paper, and smiled triumphantly.

In truth, it was a face of rare loveliness; of oval outline, with delicate yet noble features, whose expression seemed the reflex of the divine afflatus. The uplifted eyes beamed with the radiance of inspiration; the full, ripe lips were just parted; the curling hair clustered with child-like simplicity round the classic head; and the exquisitely formed hands clasped a lyre.

"Beulah, don't you think the eyes are most too wild?" suggested Clara timidly.

"What? for a poetess! Remember poesy hath madness in it," answered Beulah, still looking earnestly at her drawing.

"Madness? What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. I believe poetry to be the highest and purest phase of insanity. Those finely strung, curiously nervous natures that you always find coupled with poetic endowments, are characterized by a remarkable activity of the mental organs; and this continued excitement and premature development of the brain results in a disease which, under this aspect, the world offers premiums for. Though I enjoy a fine poem as much as anybody, I believe, in nine cases out of ten, it is the spasmodic vent of a highly nervous system, overstrained, diseased. Yes, diseased! If it does not result in the frantic madness of Lamb, or the final imbecility of Southey, it is manifested in various other forms, such as the morbid melancholy of Cowper, the bitter misanthropy of Pope, the abnormal moodiness and misery of Byron, the unsound and dangerous theories of Shelley, and the strange, fragmentary nature of Coleridge."

"Oh, Beulah! what a humiliating theory! The poet placed on an ignominious level with the nervous hypochondriac! You are the very last person I should suppose guilty of entertaining such a degraded estimate of human powers," interposed Clara energetically.

"I know it is customary to rave about Muses, and Parnassus, and Helicon, and to throw the charitable mantle of 'poetic idiosyncrasies' over all those dark spots on poetic disks. All conceivable and inconceivable eccentricities are pardoned, as the usual concomitants of genius; but, looking into the home lives of many of the most distinguished poets, I have been painfully impressed with the truth of my very unpoetic theory. Common sense has arraigned before her august tribunal some of the socalled 'geniuses' of past ages, and the critical verdict is that much of the famous 'fine frenzy' was bona-fide frenzy of a sadder nature."

"Do you think that Sappho's frenzy was established by the Leucadian leap?"

"You confound the poetess with a Sappho who lived later, and threw herself into the sea from the promontory of Leucate. Doubtless she too had 'poetic idiosyncrasies'; but her spotless life and, I believe, natural death, afford no indication of an unsound intellect. It is rather immaterial, however, to—" Beulah paused abruptly as a servant entered and approached the table, saying:

"Miss Clara, Dr. Hartwell is in the parlor and wishes to see you."

"To see me!" repeated Clara in surprise, while a rosy tinge stole into her wan face; "to see me! No! It must be you, Beulah."

"He said Miss Sanders," persisted the servant, and Clara left the room.

Beulah looked after her with an expression of some surprise; then continued penciling the chords of Sappho's lyre. A few minutes elapsed, and Clara returned with flushed cheeks and a smile of trembling joyousness.

"Beulah, do pin my mantle on straight. I am in such a hurry. Only think how kind Dr. Hartwell is; he has come to take me out to ride; says I look too pale, and he thinks a ride will benefit me. That will do, thank you."

She turned away, but Beulah rose and called out:

"Come back here and get my velvet mantle. It is quite cool, and it will be a marvelous piece of management to ride out for your health and come home with a cold. What! no gloves either! Upon my word, your thoughts must be traveling over the bridge Shinevad."

"Sure enough; I had forgotten my gloves; I will get them as I go down. Good-by." With the mantle on her arm she hurried away.

Beulah laid aside her drawing materials and prepared for her customary evening walk. Her countenance was clouded, her lip unsteady. Her guardian's studied coldness and avoidance pained her, but it was not this which saddened her now. She felt that Clara was staking the happiness of her life on the dim hope that her attachment would be returned. She pitied the delusion and dreaded the awakening to a true insight into his nature; to a consciousness of the utter uncongeniality which, she fancied, barred all thought of such a union. As she walked on these reflections gave place to others entirely removed from Clara and her guardian; and, on reaching the grove of pines opposite the asylum, where she had so often wandered in days gone by, she paced slowly up and down the "arched aisles," as she was wont to term them. It was a genuine October afternoon, cool and sunny. The delicious haze of Indian summer wrapped every distant object in its soft, purple veil; the dim vistas of the forest ended in misty depths; the very air, in its dreamy languor, resembled the atmosphere which surrounded

"The mild-eyed, melancholy lotus-eaters"

of the far East. Through the openings, pale, golden poplars shook down their dying leaves, and here and there along the ravine crimson maples gleamed against the background of dark green pines. In every direction bright-colored leaves, painted with "autumnal hectic," strewed the bier of the declining year. Beulah sat down on a tuft of moss, and gathered clusters of golden-rod and purple and white asters. She loved these wild wood-flowers much more than gaudy exotics or rare hothouse plants. They linked her with the days of her childhood, and now each graceful spray of golden-rod seemed a wand of memory calling up bygone joys, griefs, and fancies. Ah, what a hallowing glory invests our past, beckoning us back to the haunts of the olden time! The paths our childish feet trod seem all angel- guarded and thornless; the songs we sang then sweep the harp of memory, making magical melody; the words carelessly spoken now breathe a solemn, mysterious import; and faces that early went down to the tomb smile on us still with unchanged tenderness. Aye, the past, the long past, is all fairyland. Where our little feet were bruised we now see only springing flowers; where childish lips drank from some Marab verdure and garlands woo us back. Over the rustling leaves a tiny form glided to Beulah's side; a pure infantine face with golden curls looked up at her, and a lisping voice of unearthly sweetness whispered in the autumn air. Here she had often brought Lilly and filled her baby fingers with asters and goldenrod; and gathered bright scarlet leaves to please her childish fancy. Bitter waves had broken over her head since then; shadows had gathered about her heart. Oh, how far off were the early years! How changed she was; how different life and the world seemed to her now! The flowery meadows were behind her, with the vestibule of girlhood, and now she was a woman, with no ties to link her with any human being; alone, and dependent only on herself. Verily she might have exclaimed in the mournful words of Lamb:

"All, all are gone, the old familiar faces."

She sat looking at the wild flowers in her hand; a sad, dreamy light filled the clear gray eyes, and now and then her brow was plowed by some troubled thought. The countenance told of a mind perplexed and questioning. The "cloud no bigger than a man's hand" had crept up from the horizon of faith, and now darkened her sky; but she would not see the gathering gloom; shut her eyes resolutely to the coming storm. As the cool October wind stirred the leaves at her feet, and the scarlet and gold cloud-flakes faded in the west, she rose and walked slowly homeward. She was too deeply pondering her speculative doubts to notice Dr. Hartwell's buggy whirling along the street; did not see his head extended, and his cold, searching glance; and of course he believed the blindness intentional and credited it to pique or anger. On reaching home she endeavored by singing a favorite hymn to divert the current of her thoughts, but the shadows were growing tenacious and would not be banished so easily. "If a man die shall he live again?" seemed echoing on the autumn wind. She took up her Bible and read several chapters, which she fancied would uncloud her mind; but in vain. Restlessly she began to pace the floor; the lamplight gleamed on a pale, troubled face. After a time the door opened and Clara came in. She took a seat without speaking, for she had learned to read Beulah's countenance, and saw at a glance that she was abstracted and in no mood for conversation. When the tea bell rang Beulah stopped suddenly in the middle of the room.

"What is the matter?" asked Clara.

"I feel as if I needed a cup of coffee, that is all. Will you join me?"

"No; and if you take it you will not be able to close your eyes."

"Did you have a pleasant ride?" said Beulah, laying her hand on her companion's shoulder and looking gravely down into the sweet face, which wore an expression she had never seen there before.

"Oh, I shall never forget it! never!" murmured Clara.

"I am glad you enjoyed it; very glad. I wish the color would come back to your cheeks. Riding is better for you now than walking." She stooped down and pressed her lips to the wan cheek as she spoke.

"Did you walk this evening, after I left you?"

"Yes."

"What makes you look so grave?"

"A great many causes—you among the number."

"What have I done?"

"You are not so strong as I should like to see you. You have a sort of spiritual look that I don't at all fancy."

"I dare say I shall soon be well again." This was said with an effort, and a sigh quickly followed.

Beulah rang the bell for a cup of coffee, and, taking down a book, drew her chair near the lamp.

"What! studying already?" cried Clara impatiently.

"And why not? Life is short at best, and rarely allows time to master all departments of knowledge. Why should I not seize every spare moment?"

"Oh, Beulah! though you are so much younger, you awe me. I told your guardian to-day that you were studying yourself into a mere shadow. He smiled, and said you were too willful to be advised. You talk to me about not looking well! You never have had any color, and lately you have grown very thin and hollow-eyed. I asked the doctor if he did not think you were looking ill, and he said that you had changed very much since the summer. Beulah, for my sake, please don't pore over your books so incessantly." She took Beulah's hand gently in both hers.

"Want of color is as constitutional with me as the shape of my nose. I have always been pale, and study has no connection with it. Make yourself perfectly easy on my account."

"You are very willful, as your guardian says!" cried Clara impatiently.

"Yes; that is like my sallow complexion—constitutional," answered Beulah, laughing, and opening a volume of Carlyle as she spoke.

"Oh, Beulah, I don't know what will become of you!" Tears sprang into Clara's eyes.

"Do not be at all uneasy, my dear, dove-eyed Clara. I can take care of myself."



CHAPTER XIX.

It was the middle of November, and the absentees who had spent their summer at the North were all at home again. Among these were Mrs. Asbury and her two daughters; and only a few days after their return they called to see Beulah. She found them polished, cultivated, and agreeable; and when, at parting, the mother kindly pressed her hand and cordially invited her to visit them often and sociably, she felt irresistibly drawn toward her, and promised to do so. Ere long there came a friendly note, requesting her to spend the evening with them; and thus, before she had known them many weeks, Beulah found herself established on the familiar footing of an old friend. Universally esteemed and respected, Dr. Asbury's society was sought by the most refined circle of the city, and his house was a favorite resort for the intellectual men and women of the community. Occupying an enviable position in his profession, he still found leisure to devote much of his attention to strictly literary topics, and the honest frankness and cordiality of his manners, blended with the instructive tone of his conversation, rendered him a general favorite. Mrs. Asbury merited the elevated position which she so ably filled as the wife of such a man. While due attention was given to the education and rearing of her daughters, she admirably discharged the claims of society, and, by a consistent adherence to the principles of the religion she professed, checked by every means within her power the frivolous excesses and dangerous extremes which prevailed throughout the fashionable circles in which she moved. Zealously, yet unostentatiously, she exerted herself in behalf of the various charitable institutions organized to ameliorate the sufferings of the poor in their midst; and while as a Christian she conformed to the outward observances of her church, she faithfully inculcated and practiced at home the pure precepts of a religion whose effects should be the proper regulation of the heart and charity toward the world. Her parlors were not the favorite rendezvous where gossips met to retail slander. Refined, dignified, gentle, and hospitable, she was a woman too rarely, alas! met with, in so-called fashionable circles. Her husband's reputation secured them the acquaintance of all distinguished strangers, and made their house a great center of attraction. Beulah fully enjoyed and appreciated the friendship thus tendered her, and soon looked upon Dr. Asbury and his noble wife as counselors to whom in any emergency she could unhesitatingly apply. They based their position in society on their own worth, not the extrinsic appendages of wealth and fashion, and readily acknowledged the claims of all who (however humble their abode or avocation) proved themselves worthy of respect and esteem. In their intercourse with the young teacher there was an utter absence of that contemptible supercilious condescension which always characterizes an ignorant and parvenu aristocracy. They treated her as an equal in intrinsic worth, and prized her as a friend. Helen Asbury was older than Beulah and Georgia somewhat younger. They were sweet-tempered, gay girls, lacking their parent's intellectual traits, but sufficiently well-informed and cultivated to constitute them agreeable companions. Of their father's extensive library they expressed themselves rather afraid, and frequently bantered Beulah about the grave books she often selected from it. Beulah found her school duties far less irksome than she had expected, for she loved children, and soon became interested in the individual members of her classes. From eight o'clock until three she was closely occupied; then the labors of the day were over, and she spent her evenings much as she had been wont ere the opening of the session. Thus November glided quickly away, and the first of December greeted her ere she dreamed of its approach. The Grahams had not returned, though daily expected; and, notwithstanding two months had elapsed without Eugene's writing, she looked forward with intense pleasure to his expected arrival. There was one source of constant pain for her in Dr. Hartwell's continued and complete estrangement. Except a cold, formal bow in passing there was no intercourse whatever; and she sorrowed bitterly over this seeming indifference in one to whom she owed so much and was so warmly attached. Remotely connected with this cause of disquiet was the painful change in Clara. Like a lily suddenly transplanted to some arid spot, she had seemed to droop since the week of her ride. Gentle, but hopeless and depressed, she went, day after day, to her duties at Madam St. Cymon's school, and returned at night wearied, silent, and wan. Her step grew more feeble, her face thinner and paler. Often Beulah gave up her music and books, and devoted the evenings to entertaining and interesting her; but there was a constraint and reserve about her which could not be removed.

One evening, on returning from a walk with Helen Asbury, Beulah ran into her friend's room with a cluster of flowers. Clara sat by the fire, with a piece of needlework in her hand; she looked listless and sad. Beulah threw the bright golden and crimson chrysanthemums in her lap, and, stooping down, kissed her warmly, saying:

"How is your troublesome head? Here is a flowery cure for you."

"My head does not ache quite so badly. Where did you find these beautiful chrysanthemums?" answered Clara languidly.

"I stopped to get a piece of music from Georgia, and Helen cut them for me. Oh, what blessed things flowers are! They have been well styled, 'God's undertones of encouragement to the children of earth.'"

She was standing on the hearth, warming her fingers. Clara looked up at the dark, clear eye and delicate, fixed lips before her, and sighed involuntarily. Beulah knelt on the carpet, and, throwing one arm around her companion, said earnestly:

"My dear Clara, what saddens you to-night? Can't you tell me?"

A hasty knock at the door gave no time for an answer. A servant looked in.

"Is Miss Beulah Benton here? There is a gentleman in the parlor to see her; here is the card."

Beulah still knelt on the floor and held out her hand indifferently. The card was given, and she sprang up with a cry of joy.

"Oh, it is Eugene!"

At the door of the parlor she paused and pressed her hand tightly to her bounding heart. A tall form stood before the grate, and a glance discovered to her a dark mustache and heavy beard; still it must be Eugene, and, extending her arms unconsciously, she exclaimed:

"Eugene! Eugene! Have you come at last?"

He started, looked up, and hastened toward her. Her arms suddenly dropped to her side, and only their hands met in a firm, tight clasp. For a moment they gazed at each other in silence, each noting the changes which time had wrought. Then he said slowly:

"I should not have known you, Beulah. You have altered surprisingly." His eyes wandered wonderingly over her features. She was pale and breathless; her lips trembled violently, and there was a strange gleam in her large, eager eyes. She did not reply, but stood looking up intently into his handsome face. Then she shivered; the long, black lashes drooped; her white fingers relaxed their clasp of his, and she sat down on the sofa near. Ah! her womanly intuitions, infallible as Ithuriel's spear, told her that he was no longer the Eugene she had loved so devotedly. An iron hand seemed to clutch her heart, and again a shudder crept over her as he seated himself beside her, saying:

"I am very much pained to find you here. I am just from Dr. Hartwell's, where I expected to see you."

He paused, for something about her face rather disconcerted him, and he took her hand again in his.

"How could you expect to find me there, after reading my last letter?"

"I still hoped that your good sense would prevent your taking such an extraordinary step."

She smiled icily, and answered:

"Is it so extraordinary, then, that I should desire to maintain my self-respect?"

"It would not have been compromised by remaining where you were."

"I should scorn myself were I willing to live idly on the bounty of one upon whom I have no claim."

"You are morbidly fastidious, Beulah."

Her eyes flashed, and, snatching her hand from his, she asked, with curling lips: "Eugene, if I prefer to teach for a support, why should you object?"

"Simply because you are unnecessarily lowering yourself in the estimation of the community. You will find that the circle which a residence under Dr. Hartwell's roof gave you the entree of, will look down with contempt upon a subordinate teacher in a public school—"

"Then, thank Heaven, I am forever shut out from that circle! Is my merit to be gauged by the cost of my clothes or the number of fashionable parties I attend, think you?"

"Assuredly, Beulah, the things you value so lightly are the standards of worth and gentility in the community you live in, as you will unfortunately find."

She looked at him steadily, with grief, and scorn, and wonder in her deep, searching eyes, as she exclaimed:

"Oh, Eugene! what has changed you so, since the bygone years when in the asylum we talked of the future? of laboring, conquering, and earning homes for ourselves! Oh, has the foul atmosphere of foreign lands extinguished all your selfrespect? Do you come back sordid and sycophantic, and the slave of opinions you would once have utterly detested? Have you narrowed your soul and bowed down before the miserable standard which every genuine, manly spirit must loathe? Oh! has it come to this? Has it come to this?" Her voice was broken and bitter, scalding tears of shame and grief gushed over her cheeks.

"This fierce recrimination and unmerited tirade is not exactly the welcome I was prepared to expect," returned Eugene haughtily; and, rising, he took his hat from the table. She rose also, but made no effort to detain him, and leaned her head against the mantelpiece. He watched her a moment, then approached and put his hand on her shoulder.

"Beulah, as a man I see the world and its relations in a far different light from that in which I viewed it while a boy."

"It is utterly superfluous to tell me so!" replied Beulah bitterly.

"I grapple with realities now, and am forced to admit the expediency of prudent policy. You refuse to see things in their actual existence and prefer toying with romantic dreams. Beulah, I have awakened from these since we parted."

She put up her hand deprecatingly, and answered:

"Then let me dream on! let me dream on!"

"Beulah, I have been sadly mistaken in my estimate of your character. I could not have believed there was so much fierce obstinacy, so much stubborn pride, in your nature."

She instantly lifted her head, and their eyes met. Other days came back to both; early confidence, mutual love and dependence. For a moment his nobler impulses prevailed, and, with an unsteady lip, he passed his arm quickly around her. But she drew coldly back, and said:

"It seems we are mutually disappointed in each other. I regret that the discharge of my duty should so far conflict with your opinions and standard of propriety as to alienate us so completely as it seems likely to do. All my life I have looked to you for guidance and counsel; but to-night you have shaken my trust, and henceforth I must depend upon my own heart to support me in my work. Oh, Eugene! friend of my childhood! beware lest you sink yourself in your own estimation! Oh, for days, and months, and years I have pictured the hour of your return, little dreaming that it would prove one of the saddest of my life! I have always looked up to you. Oh, Eugene! Eugene! you are not what you were! Do not! oh, do not make me pity you! That would kill me!" She covered her face with her hands, and shuddered convulsively.

"I am not so changed as you think me," returned Eugene proudly.

"Then, in earlier years I was miserably deceived in your character. For the sake of wealth, and what the world calls 'position,' you have sold yourself. In lieu of his gold and influence Mr. Graham has your will, your conscience. Ah, Eugene! how can you bear to be a mere tool in his hands?"

"Beulah, your language, your insinuations are unpardonable! By Heaven, no one but yourself might utter them, and not even you can do so with impunity! If you choose to suffer your foolish pride and childish whims to debar you from the enviable position in society which Dr. Hartwell would gladly confer on you—why, you have only yourself to censure. But my situation in Mr. Graham's family has long been established. He has ever regarded me as his son, treated me as such, and as such I feel bound to be guided by him in my choice of a profession. Beulah, I have loved you well, but such another exhibition of scorn and bitterness will indeed alienate us. Since you have set aside my views and counsel in the matter of teaching, I shall not again refer to it, I promise you. I have no longer the wish to control your actions, even had I the power. But, remember, since the hour you stood beside your father's grave, leaning on me, I have been constantly your friend. My expostulations were for what I considered your good. Beulah, I am still, to you, the Eugene of other days. It will be your own fault if the sanctity of our friendship is not maintained."

"It shall not be my fault, Eugene." She hastily held out her hand. He clasped it in his, and, as if dismissing the topics which had proved so stormy, drew her to a seat, and said composedly:

"Come, tell me what you have been doing with yourself these long five years, which have changed you so. I have heard already of your heroism in nursing the sick, during the late awful season of pestilence and death."

For an hour they talked on indifferent themes, each feeling that the other was veiling the true impulses of the heart, and finally Eugene rose to go.

"How is Cornelia's health now?" asked Beulah, as they stood up before the fire.

"About the same. She never complains, but does not look like herself. Apropos! she intrusted a note to me, for you, which I had quite forgotten. Here it is. Miss Dupres is with her for the winter; at least, a part of it. Cornelia will come and see you in a day or two, she requested me to say; and I do hope, Beulah, that you will visit her often; she has taken a great fancy to you."

"How long since?" answered Beulah, with an incredulous smile.

"Since she met you at a concert, I believe. By the way, we are very musical at our house, and promise ourselves some delightful evenings this winter. You must hear Antoinette Dupres sing; she is equal to the best prima-donna of Italy. Do you practice much?"

"Yes."

"Well, I must go. When shall I see you again?"

"Whenever you feel disposed to come; and I hope that will be often. Eugene, you were a poor correspondent; see that you prove a better visitor."

"Yes, I will. I have a thousand things to say, but scarcely know where to commence. You are always at home in the evenings, I suppose?"

"Yes: except occasionally when I am with the Asburys."

"Do you see much of them?"

"Yes; a good deal."

"I am glad to hear it; they move in the very first circle. Now, Beulah, don't be offended if I ask what is the matter with Dr. Hartwell? How did you displease him?"

"Just as I displeased you; by deciding to teach. Eugene, it pains me very much that he should treat me as he does, but it is utterly out of my power to rectify the evil."

"He told me that he knew nothing of your movements or plans. I wish, for your sake, you could be reconciled."

"We will be some day. I must wait patiently," said she, with a sigh.

"Beulah, I don't like that troubled look about your mouth. What is the matter? Can I in any way remove it? It is connected with me, even remotely? My dear Beulah, do not shrink from me."

"Nothing is the matter that you can rectify," said she gravely.

"Something is the matter, then, which I may not know?"

"Yes."

"And you will not trust me?"

"It is not a question of trust, Eugene."

"You think I cannot help you?"

"You cannot help me, I am sure." "Well, I will see you again to- morrow; till then, good-by." They shook hands, and she went back to her own room. Cornelia's note contained an invitation to spend the next evening with them; she would call as soon as possible. She put it aside, and, throwing her arms on the mantelpiece, bowed her head upon them. This, then, was the hour which, for five years, she had anticipated as an occasion of unmixed delight. She was not weeping; no, the eyes were dry and the lips firmly fixed. She was thinking of the handsome face which a little while before was beside her; thinking, with keen agony, of footprints there which she had never dreamed of seeing; they were very slight, yet unmistakable—the fell signet of dissipation. Above all, she read it in the eyes, which once looked so fearlessly into hers. She knew he did not imagine for an instant that she suspected it; and of all the bitter cups which eighteen years had proffered, this was by far the blackest. It was like a hideous dream, and she groaned, and passed her hand over her brow, as if to sweep it all away. Poor Beulah! the idol of her girlhood fell from its pedestal and lay in crumbling ruins at her feet. In this hour of reunion she saw clearly into her own heart; she did not love him, save as a friend, as a brother. She was forced to perceive her own superiority; could she love a man whom she did not revere? Verily, she felt now that she did not love Eugene. There was a feeling of contempt for his weakness, yet she could not bear to see him other than she had hoped. How utterly he had disappointed her? Could it be possible that he had fallen so low as to dissipate habitually? This she would not believe; he was still too noble for such a disgraceful course. She felt a soft touch on her shoulder, and raised her sad, tearless face. Clara, with her ethereal, spiritual countenance, stood on the hearth. "Do I disturb you?" said she timidly.

"No; I am glad you came. I was listening to cold, bitter, bitter thoughts. Sit down, Clara; you look fatigued."

"Oh, Beulah! I am weary in body and spirit; I have no energy; my very existence is a burden to me."

"Clara, it is weak to talk so. Rouse yourself, and fulfill the destiny for which you were created."

"I have no destiny but that of loneliness and misery."

"Our situations are similar, yet I never repine as you do."

"You have not the same cause. You are self-reliant; need no society to conduce to your happiness; your heart is bound up in your books."

"Where yours had better have been," answered Beulah. She walked across the floor several times, then said impressively, as she threw her arm round Clara's waist:

"Crush it; crush it; if you crush your heart in the effort."

A moan escaped Clara's lips, and she hid her face against her friend's shoulder.

"I have known it since the night of your grandfather's death. If you want to be happy and useful, crush it out of your heart."

"I have tried, and cannot."

"Oh, but you can! I tell you there is nothing a woman cannot do, provided she puts on the armor of duty and unsheathes the sword of a strong, unbending will. Of course, you can do it, if you will."

"Wait till you feel as I do, Beulah, and it will not seem so light a task."

"That will never happen. If I live till the next geological period I never shall love anybody as insanely as you love. Why, Clara, don't you see that you are wrecking your happiness? What strange infatuation has seized you?"

"I know now that it is perfectly hopeless," said Clara calmly.

"You might have known it from the first."

"No; it is but recently that the barrier has risen."

"What barrier?" asked Beulah curiously.

"For Heaven's sake, Beulah, do not mock me! You know too well what separates us."

"Yes; utter uncongeniality."

Clara raised her head, looked into the honest face before her, and answered:

"If that were all, I could yet hope to merit his love; but you know that is not so. You must know that he has no love to bestow."

Beulah's face seemed instantly steeled. A grayish hue crept over it; and, drawing her slender form to its full height, she replied, with haughty coldness:

"What do you mean? I can only conjecture."

"Beulah, you know he loves you!" cried Clara, with a strangely quiet smile.

"Clara Sanders, never say that again as long as you live; for there is not the shadow of truth in it."

"Ah, I would not believe it till it was forced upon me. The heart bars itself a long time to painful truths! I have looked at you, and wondered whether you could be ignorant of what I saw so clearly. I believe you are honest in what you say. I know that you are; but it is nevertheless true. I saw it the evening I went to ride. He loves you, whether you see it or not. And, moreover, the world has begun to join your names. I have heard, more than once, that he educated you with the intention of marrying you; and recently it has been rumored that the marriage would take place very soon. Do not be hurt with me, Beulah! I think it is right that you should know all this."

"It is utterly false from beginning to end! He never had such a thought! never! never!" cried Beulah, striking her clenched hand heavily on the table.

"Why, then, was he so anxious to prevent your teaching?"

"Because he is generous and kind, and fancied it was a life of hardship, which I could escape by accepting his offer to adopt me. Your supposition is perfectly ridiculous. He is double my age. A stern, taciturn man. What could possibly attract him to one whom he looks upon as a mere child? And, moreover, he is a worshiper of beauty! Now, it is an indisputable fact that I am anything but a beauty! Oh, the idea is absurd beyond all degree. Never mention it to me again. I tell you solemnly, Clara, your jealous fancy has run away with your common sense."

A sad, incredulous smile flitted over Clara's face; but she made no reply.

"Clara, rouse yourself from this weak dream. Oh, where is your pride—your womanly pride—your self-respect? Is your life to be aimless and dreary because of an unrequited attachment? Shake it off! Rise above it! Destroy it! Oh, it makes the blood tingle in my veins to think of your wasting your energies and hopes in love for one who is so utterly indifferent to you. Much as I love you, Clara, had I the power to make you his wife to-morrow, I would rather see you borne to your grave. You know nothing of his fitful, moody nature; his tyrannical will. You could not be happy with him; you would see how utterly unsuited you are."

"Are you acquainted with the circumstances of his early life and ill-fated marriage?" asked Clara, in a low, passionless tone.

"No; he never alluded to his marriage in any way. Long as I lived in his house there was no mention of his wife's name, and I should never have known of his marriage but from his sister."

"It was a most unhappy marriage," said Clara musingly.

"So I conjectured from his studious avoidance of all allusion to it."

"His wife was very, very beautiful; I saw her once when I was a child," continued Clara.

"Of course she must have been, for he could not love one who was not."

"She lived but a few months; yet even in that short time they had become utterly estranged, and she died of a broken heart. There is some mystery connected with it; they were separated."

"Separated!" cried Beulah in amazement.

"Yes, separated; she died in New Orleans, I believe."

"And yet you profess to love him! A man who broke his wife's heart," said Beulah, with a touch of scorn.

"No; you do his noble nature injustice. He is incapable of such a course. Even a censorious world acquitted him of unkindness."

"And heaped contumely on the unhappy victim, eh?" rejoined Beulah.

"Her conduct was not irreproachable, it has been whispered."

"Aye, whispered by slanderous tongues! Not openly avowed, to admit of denial and refutation! I wonder the curse of Gomorrah does not descend on this gossiping, libelous community."

"No one seems to know anything definite about the affair; though I have often heard it commented upon and wondered over."

"Clara, let it be buried henceforth. Neither you nor I have any right to discuss and censure what neither of us know anything about. Dr. Hartwell has been my best and truest friend. I love and honor him; his faults are his own, and only his Maker has the right to balance his actions. Once for all, let the subject drop." Beulah compressed her lips with an expression which her companion very well understood. Soon after the latter withdrew, and, leaning her arms on the table near her, Beulah sank into a reverie which was far from pleasant. Dismissing the unsatisfactory theme of her guardian's idiosyncrasies, her thoughts immediately reverted to Eugene, and the revolution which five years had effected in his character.

In the afternoon of the following day she was engaged with her drawing, when a succession of quick raps at her door forced an impatient "Come in" from her lips. The door opened, and she rose involuntarily as the queenly form of Cornelia Graham stood before her. With a slow, stately tread she approached, and, extending her hand, said unconcernedly:

"I have waived ceremony, you see, and come up to your room."

"How are you?" said Beulah, as they shook hands and seated themselves.

"Just as usual. How did you contrive to escape the plague?"

"By resolving not to have it, I believe."

"You have a wan, sickly look, I think."

"So have you, I am sure. I hoped that you would come home strong and well." Beulah noted, with a feeling of compassion, the thin, hollow cheeks and sunken, yet burning, eyes before her. Cornelia bit her lip, and asked haughtily:

"Who told you that I was not well?"

"Your countenance would tell me, if I had never heard it from others," replied Beulah, with an instantaneous recollection of her guardian's warning.

"Did you receive my note yesterday?"

"Yes. I am obliged by your invitation, but cannot accept it."

"So I supposed, and therefore came to make sure of you. You are too proud to come until all the family call upon you, eh?"

"No; only people who consider themselves inferior are on the watch for slights, and scrupulously exact the minutest requirements of etiquette. On the plane of equality these barriers melt away."

As Beulah spoke she looked steadily into the searching, black eyes, which seemed striving to read her soul. An expression of pleasure lighted the sallow face, and the haughty lines about the beautiful mouth melted into a half-smile.

"Then you have not forgiven my rudeness during early schooldays?"

"I had nothing to forgive. I had forgotten the affair until you spoke."

"Then, why will you not come?"

"For reasons which would not be removed by a recapitulation."

"And you positively will not come?"

"Not this evening. Another time I certainly will come with pleasure."

"Say to-morrow, then."

"To-morrow I shall be engaged."

"Where? Excuse my pertinacity."

"At Dr. Asbury's. I have promised to practice some duets with Helen."

"Do you play well, Beulah? Are you a good musician?"

"Yes."

Cornelia mused a moment, and then said slowly, as if watching the effect of her question:

"You have seen Eugene, of course?"

"Yes."

"He has changed very much in his appearance, has he not?"

"More than I was prepared to expect."

"He is to be a merchant, like my father."

"So he wrote me."

"You endeavored to dissuade him from complying with my father's wishes, did you not?"

"Yes; most earnestly," answered Beulah gravely.

"Beulah Benton, I like you! You are honest indeed. At last I find one who is." With a sudden impulse she laid her white, jeweled hand on Beulah's.

"Is honesty, or, rather, candor, so very rare, Cornelia?"

"Come out from your 'loop-hole of retreat,' into the world, and you can easily answer your own question."

"You seem to have looked on human nature through misanthropic lenses."

"Yes; I bought a pair of spectacles, for which I paid a most exorbitant price! but they were labeled 'experience'!" She smiled frigidly.

"You do not seem to have enjoyed your tour particularly."

"Yes, I did; but one is glad to rest sometimes. I may yet prove a second Bayard Taylor, notwithstanding. I should like you for a companion. You would not sicken me with stereotyped nonsense."

Her delicate fingers folded themselves about Beulah's, who could not bring herself to withdraw her hand.

"And, sure enough, you would not be adopted? Do you mean to adhere to your determination, and maintain yourself by teaching?"

"I do."

"And I admire you for it! Beulah, you must get over your dislike to me."

"I do not dislike you, Cornelia."

"Thank you for your negative preference," returned Cornelia, rather amused at her companion's straightforward manner. Then, with a sudden contraction of her brow, she added:

"I am not so bearish as they give me credit for?"

"I never heard you called so."

"Ah! that is because you do not enter the enchanted circle of 'our clique.' During morning calls I am flattered, cajoled, and fawned upon. Their carriages are not out of hearing before my friends and admirers, like hungry harpies, pounce upon my character, manners, and appearance, with most laudable zest and activity. Wait till you have been initiated into my coterie of fashionable friends! Why, the battle of Marengo was a farce in comparison with the havoc they can effect in the space of a morning among the characters of their select visiting list! What a precious age of backbiting we city belles live in!" She spoke with an air of intolerable scorn.

"As a prominent member of this circle, why do you not attempt to rectify this spreading evil? You might effect lasting good."

"I am no Hercules, to turn the Peneus of reform through the Augean realms of society," answered Cornelia, with an impatient gesture; and, rising, she drew on her glove. Beulah looked up at her, and pitied the joyless, cynical nature, which gave an almost repulsively austere expression to the regular, faultless features.

"Beulah, will you come on Saturday morning and spend an hour or so with me?"

"No; I have a music lesson to give; but if you will be at home in the afternoon, I will come with pleasure."

"I shall expect you, then. You were drawing when I came in; are you fond of it?" As she spoke she took up a piece which was nearly completed.

"Yes; but you will find my sketches very crude."

"Who taught you to draw?"

"I have had several teachers. All rather indifferent, however."

"Where did you see a St. Cecilia? There is too much breadth of brow here," continued Cornelia, with a curious glance at the young teacher.

"Yes; I deviated from the original intentionally. I copied it from a collection of heads which Georgia Asbury brought from the North."

"I have a number of choice paintings, which I selected in Europe. Any that you may fancy are at your service for models."

"Thank you. I shall be glad to avail myself of the privilege."

"Good-by. You will come Saturday?"

"Yes; if nothing occurs to prevent, I will come in the afternoon." Beulah pressed her offered hand, and saw her descend the steps with a feeling of pity which she could not exactly analyze. Passing by the window, she glanced down, and paused to look upon an elegant carriage standing before the door. The day was cold, but the top was thrown back, and on one of the cushions sat, or, rather, reclined, a richly dressed and very beautiful girl. As Beulah leaned out to examine the lovely stranger more closely Cornelia appeared. The driver opened the low door, and, as Cornelia stepped in, the young lady, who was Miss Dupres, of course, ejaculated rather peevishly:

"You stayed an age!"

"Drive down the Bay Road, Wilson," was Cornelia's reply, and, as she folded her rich cloak about her, the carriage was whirled away.

Beulah went back to the fire, warmed her fingers, and resumed her drawing, thinking that she would not willingly change places with the petted child of wealth and luxury.



CHAPTER XX.

It was a dreary Saturday afternoon, but Beulah wrapped a warm shawl about her, and set out to pay the promised visit. The air was damp and raw, and leaden, marbled clouds hung in the sky. Mr. Graham's house was situated in the fashionable part of the city, near Mr. Grayson's residence, and, as Beulah passed the crouching lions, she quickened her steps, to escape the painful reminiscences which they recalled. In answer to her ring, the servant ushered her into the parlors, furnished with almost Oriental magnificence, and was retiring, when she gave her name.

"You are Miss Benton, then. I have orders to show you up at once to Miss Cornelia's room. She has seen no visitors today. This way, miss, if you please."

He led the way, up an easy, spiral flight of steps, to the door of a room, which he threw open. Cornelia was sitting in a large cushioned chair by the fire, with a papier-mache writing-desk beside her, covered with letters. There was a bright fire in the grate, and the ruddy haze, together with the reflection from the crimson damask curtains, gave a dim, luxurious aspect to the chamber, which in every respect betokened the fastidious taste of a petted invalid. Clad in a dark silk robe-de-chambre, with her cheek pressed against the blue velvet lining of the chair, Cornelia's face wore a sickly, sallow hue, which was rendered more palpable by her black, glittering eyes and jetty hair. She eagerly held out her hand, and a smile of sincere pleasure parted the lips, which a paroxysm of pain seemed to have just compressed.

"It is such a gloomy day I feared you would not come. Take off your bonnet and shawl."

"It is not so gloomy out as you imagine," said Beulah.

"What? not, with dull clouds, and a stiff, raw, northeaster? I looked out of the window a while since, and the bay looked just as I have seen the North Sea, gray and cold. Why don't you take off your bonnet?"

"Because I can only sit with you a short time," answered Beulah, resisting the attempt made to take her shawl.

"Why can't you spend the evening?" said Cornelia, frowning.

"I promised not to remain more than an hour."

"Promised whom?"

"Clara Sanders. She is sick; unable to leave her room; and is lonely when I am away."

"My case is analogous; so I will put myself on the charity list for once. I have not been downstairs for two days."

"But you have everything to interest you even here," returned Beulah, glancing around at the numerous paintings and engravings which were suspended on all sides, while ivory, marble, and bronze statuettes were scattered in profusion about the room. Cornelia followed her glance, and asked, with a joyless smile:

"Do you suppose those bits of stone and canvas satisfy me?"

"Certainly. 'A thing of beauty should be a joy forever.' With all these, and your library, surely you are never lonely."

"Pshaw! they tire me immensely. Sometimes the cramped positions and unwinking eyes of that 'Holy Family' there over the chimneypiece make me perfectly nervous."

"You must be morbidly sensitive at such times."

"Why? Do you never feel restless and dissatisfied without any adequate reason?"

"No, never."

"And yet you have few sources of pleasure," said Cornelia, in a musing tone, as her eyes wandered over her visitor's plain attire.

"No! my sources of enjoyment are as varied and extended as the universe."

"I should like you to map them. Shut up all day with a parcel of rude, stupid children, and released only to be caged again in a small room in a second-rate boarding house. Really, I should fancy they were limited indeed."

"No; I enjoy my brisk walk to school in the morning; the children are neither so dull nor so bearish as you seem to imagine. I am attached to many of them, and do not feel the day to be very long. At three I hurry home, get my dinner, practice, and draw or sew till the shadows begin to dim my eyes; then I walk until the lamps are lighted, find numberless things to interest me, even in a winter's walk, and go back to my room refreshed and eager to get to my books. Once seated with them, what portion of the earth is there that I may not visit, from the crystal Arctic temples of Odin and Thor to the groves of Abyssinia? In this age of travel and cheap books I can sit in my room in the third story, and, by my lamplight, see all, and immeasurably more, than you, who have been traveling for eighteen months. Wherever I go I find sources of enjoyment; even the pictures in bookstores give me pleasure and contribute food for thought; and when, as now, I am surrounded by all that wealth can collect, I admire, and enjoy the beauty and elegance as much as if I owned it all. So you see that my enjoyments are as varied as the universe itself."

"Eureka!" murmured Cornelia, eying her companion curiously, "Eureka! you shall have the tallest case in the British Museum, or Barnum's, just as your national antipathies may incline you."

"What impresses you as so singular in my mode of life?" asked Beulah rather dryly.

"Your philosophic contentment, which I believe you are too candid to counterfeit. Your easy solution of that great human riddle given the world, to find happiness. The Athenian and Alexandrian schools dwindle into nothingness. Commend me to your 'categories,' O Queen of Philosophy." She withdrew her searching eyes, and fixed them moodily on the fire, twirling the tassel of her robe as she mused.

"You are most egregiously mistaken, Cornelia, if you have been led to suppose, from what I said a moment since, that I am never troubled about anything. I merely referred to enjoyments derived from various sources, open alike to rich and poor. There are Marahs hidden in every path; no matter whether the draught is taken in jeweled goblets or unpolished gourds."

"Sometimes, then, you are 'blued' most dismally, like the balance of unphilosophic men and women, eh?"

"Occasionally my mind is very much perplexed and disturbed; not exactly 'blued,' as you express it, but dimmed, clouded."

"What clouds it? Will you tell me?" said Cornelia eagerly.

"The struggle to see that which I suppose it never was intended I should see."

"I don't understand you," said Cornelia, knitting her brows.

"Nor would you even were I to particularize."

"Perhaps I am not so very obtuse as you fancy."

"At any rate, I shall not enter into detail," answered Beulah, smiling quietly at the effect of her words.

"Do you ever weary of your books?" Cornelia leaned forward, and bent a long searching look on her guest's countenance as she spoke.

"Not of my books; but sometimes, nay, frequently, of the thoughts they excite."

"A distinction without a difference," said the invalid coldly.

"A true distinction, nevertheless," maintained Beulah.

"Be good enough to explain it then."

"For instance, I read Carlyle for hours, without the slightest sensation of weariness. Midnight forces me to lay the book reluctantly aside, and then the myriad conjectures and inquiries which I am conscious of, as arising from those same pages, weary me beyond all degrees of endurance."

"And these conjectures cloud your mind?" said Cornelia, with a half- smile breaking over her face.

"I did not say so; I merely gave it as an illustration of what you professed not to understand."

"I see your citadel of reserve and mistrust cannot be carried by storm," answered Cornelia petulantly.

Before Beulah could reply, a servant entered, and addressed Cornelia.

"Your mother wants to show your Paris hat and veil, and handsomest point-lace set, to Mrs. Vincent, and Miss Julia says, can't she run up and see you a minute?"

A sneering smile accompanied the contemptuous answer, which was delivered in no particularly gentle manner.

"This is the second time those 'particular friends' of ours have called to inspect my winter outfit. Take down my entire wardrobe to them: dresses, bonnets, mantles, laces, handkerchiefs, ribbons, shawls—nay, gloves and slippers, for there is a 'new style' of catch on one, and of bows and buckles on the other. Do you hear me, Mary? don't leave a rag of my French finery behind. Let the examination be sufficiently complete this time. Don't forget the Indian shawl and the opera cloak and hood, nor that ornamental comb, named after the last popular danseuse; and tell Miss Julia she will please excuse me—another time I will try to see her. Say I am engaged."

Some moments elapsed, during which Mary opened and shut a number of drawers and boxes, and finally disappeared, staggering beneath a load of silks, velvets, and laces. As the door closed behind her, Cornelia smoothed her brow, and said apologetically:

"Doubtless it seems a mere trifle of accommodation to display all that mass of finery to their eagerly curious eyes; but I assure you that, though I have not been at home quite a week, those things have vacated their places at least twenty times for inspection; and this ridiculous mania for the 'latest style' disgusts me beyond measure. I tell you, the majority of the women in this town think of nothing else. I have not yet looked over my wardrobe myself. Mother selected it in Paris, and I did not trouble myself to examine it when it was unpacked."

Beulah smiled, but offered no comment. Cornelia suddenly sank back in her chair, and said hastily:

"Give me that vial on the bureau! Quick! quick!"

Beulah sprang up and handed her the vial, which she put to her lips. She was ghastly pale, her features writhed, and heavy drops glistened on her brow, corrugated by severe pain.

"Can I do anything for you, Cornelia? Shall I call your mother?"

"No. You may fan me, if you will." She moaned and closed her eyes.

Beulah seized a fan, and did as requested, now and then wiping away the moisture which gathered around the lips and forehead. Gradually the paroxysm passed off, and, opening her eyes, she said wearily: