"That will do, thank you. Now pour out a glass of water from the pitcher yonder."

Beulah handed her the draught, saying, with surprise:

"Sitting wrapped up by a fire and drinking ice-water!"

"Yes; I use ice-water the year round. Please touch the bellrope, will you?"

As Beulah resumed her seat, Cornelia added, with a forced laugh:

"You look as if you pitied me."

"I do, most sincerely. Do you suffer in this way often?"

"Yes—no—well, when I am prudent I don't." Then, turning to the servant, who stood at the door, she continued: "John, go to Dr. Hartwell's office (not his house, mind you), and leave word that he must come here before night. Do you understand? Shut the door-stop! send up some coal!"

She drew her chair closer to the fire, and, extending her slippered feet on the marble hearth, said:

"I have suffered more during the last three days than in six months before. Last night I did not close my eyes—and Dr. Hartwell must prepare me some medicine. What is the matter with Clara Sanders? She looks like an alabaster image!"

"She has never recovered entirely from that attack of yellow fever; and a day or two ago she took cold, and has had constant fever since. I suppose she will see the doctor while I am here. I feel anxious about her."

"She looks ethereal, as if refined for a translation to heaven," continued Cornelia musingly; then suddenly lifting her head, she listened an instant, and exclaimed angrily: "It is very strange that I am not to have an hour's peace and enjoyment with you, without—"

The door opened, and a graceful form and lovely face approached the fireplace. "Miss Benton, suffer me to introduce my cousin, Miss Dupres," said Cornelia very coldly.

The young lady just inclined her head, and proceeded to scan Beulah's countenance and dress, with a degree of cool impertinence which was absolutely amusing. Evidently, however, Cornelia saw nothing amusing in this ill-bred stare, for she pushed a light chair impatiently toward her, saying:

"Sit down, Antoinette!"

She threw herself into the seat with a sort of languid grace, and said, in the most musical of voices:

"Why would not you see Julia Vincent? She was so much disappointed."

"Simply and solely because I did not choose to see her. Be good enough to move your chair to one side, if you please," snapped Cornelia.

"That was very unkind in you, considering she is so fond of you. We are all to spend the evening with her next week—you, and your brother, and I. A mere 'sociable,' she says." She had been admiringly inspecting her small hands, loaded with diamonds; and now, turning round, she again freely scrutinized Beulah, who had been silently contemplating her beautiful oval profile and silky auburn curls. Certainly Antoinette Dupres was beautiful, but it was such a beauty as one sees in wax dolls—blank, soulless, expressionless, if I may except the predominating expression of self-satisfaction. Beulah's quiet dignity failed to repel the continued stare fixed upon her, and, gathering up the folds of her shawl, she rose.

"Don't go," said Cornelia earnestly.

"I must; Clara is alone, and I promised to return soon."

"When will you come again?" Cornelia took her hand and pressed it warmly.

"I really do not know. I hope you will be better soon."

"Eugene will be disappointed; he expects you to spend the evening with us. What shall I tell him?"

"Nothing."

"I will come and see you the very first day I can get out of this prison-house of mine. Meantime, if I send for you, will you come and sit with me?"

"That depends upon circumstances. If you are sick and lonely, I certainly will. Good-by."

"Good-by, Beulah." The haughty heiress drew the orphan's face down to hers and kissed her cordially. Not a little surprised by this unexpected demonstration of affection in one so cold and stately, Beulah bowed distantly to the cousin, who returned the salutation still more distantly, and, hastening down the steps, was glad to find herself once more under the dome of sky, gray and rainy though it was. The wind sighed and sobbed through the streets, and a few cold drops fell, as she approached Mrs. Hoyt's. Quickening her steps, she ran in by a side entrance, and was soon at Clara's room. The door stood open, and, with bonnet and shawl in her hand, she entered, little prepared to meet her guardian, for she had absented herself with the hope of avoiding him. He was sitting by a table, preparing some medicine, and looked up involuntarily as she came in. His eyes lightened instantly, but he merely said:

"Good-evening, Beulah."

The tone was less icy than on previous occasions, and, crossing the room at once, she stood beside him, and held out her hand.

"How are you, sir?"

He did not, take the hand, but looked at her keenly, and said:

"You are an admirable nurse, to go off and leave your sick friend."

Beulah threw down her bonnet and shawl, and, retreating to the hearth, began to warm her fingers, as she replied, with indifference:

"I have just left another of your patients. Cornelia Graham has been worse than usual for a day or two. Clara, I will put away my outdoor wrappings and be with you presently." She retired to her own room, and, leaning against the window, where the rain was now pattering drearily, she murmured faintly:

"Will he always treat me so? Have I lost my friend forever? Once he was so different; so kind, even in his sternness!" A tear hung upon her lash, and fell on her hand; she brushed it hastily away, and stood thinking over this alienation, so painful and unnatural, when she heard her guardian close Clara's door and walk across the hall to the head of the stairs. She waited a while, until she thought he had reached his buggy, and slowly proceeded to Clara's room. Her eyes were fixed on the floor and her hand was already on the bolt of the door, when a deep voice startled her.

"Beulah!"

She looked up at him proudly. Resentment had usurped the place of grief. But she could not bear the earnest eyes that looked into hers with such misty splendor; and, provoked at her own emotion, she asked coldly:

"What do you want, sir?"

He did not answer at once, but stood observing her closely. She felt the hot blood rush into her usually cold, pale face, and, despite her efforts to seem perfectly indifferent, her eyelids and lips would tremble. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder, and he spoke very gently.

"Child, have you been ill? You look wretched. What ails you, Beulah?"

"Nothing, sir."

"That will not answer. Tell me, child, tell me!"

"I tell you I am as well as usual," cried she impatiently, yet her voice faltered. She was struggling desperately with her own heart. The return of his old manner, the winning tones of his voice, affected her more than she was willing he should see.

"Beulah, you used to be truthful and candid."

"I am so still," she returned stoutly, though tears began to gather in her eyes.

"No, child; already the world has changed you."

A shadow fell over his face, and the sad eyes were like clouded stars.

"You know better, sir! I am just what I always was! It is you who are so changed! Once you were my friend; my guardian! Once you were kind, and guided me; but now you are stern, and bitter, and tyrannical!" She spoke passionately, and tears, which she bravely tried to force back, rolled swiftly down her cheeks. His light touch on her shoulder tightened until it seemed a hand of steel, and, with an expression which she never forgot, even in after years, he answered:

"Tyrannical! Not to you, child!"

"Yes, sir; tyrannical! cruelly tyrannical! Because I dared to think and act for myself, you have cast off—utterly! You try to see how cold and distant you can be; and show me that you don't care whether I live or die, so long as I choose to be independent of you. I did not believe that you could ever be so ungenerous!" She looked up at him with swimming eyes. He smiled down into her tearful face, and asked:

"Why did you defy me, child?"

"I did not, sir, until you treated me worse than the servants; worse than you did Charon even."

"How?"

"How, indeed! You left me in your own house without one word of good-by, when you expected to be absent an indefinite time. Did you suppose that I would remain there an hour after such treatment?"

He smiled again, and said in the low, musical tone which she had always found so difficult to resist.

"Come back, my child. Come back to me!"

"Never, sir! never!" answered she resolutely.

A stony hue settled on his face; the lips seemed instantly frozen, and, removing his hand from her shoulder, he said, as if talking to a perfect stranger: "See that Clara Sanders needs nothing; she is far from being well."

He left her; but her heart conquered for an instant, and she sprang down two steps and caught his hand. Pressing her face against his arm, she exclaimed brokenly:

"Oh, sir! do not cast me off entirely! My friend, my guardian, indeed I have not deserved this!"

He laid his hand on her bowed head, and said calmly:

"Fierce, proud spirit! Ah! it will take long years of trial and suffering to tame you. Go, Beulah! You have cast yourself off. It was no wish, no work of mine."

He lifted her head from his arm, gently unclasped her fingers, and walked away. Beulah dried the tears on her cheek, and, composing herself by a great effort, returned to Clara. The latter still sat in an easy-chair, and leaned back with closed eyes. Beulah made no effort to attract her attention, and sat down noiselessly to reflect upon her guardian's words and the separation which, she now clearly saw, he intended should be final. There, in the gathering gloom of twilight, sat Clara Sanders, nerving her heart for the dreary future; solemnly and silently burying the cherished hopes that had irised her path, and now, looking steadily forward to coming years, she said to her drooping spirit: "Be strong and bear this sorrow. I will conquer my own heart." How is it that, when the human soul is called to pass through a fierce ordeal, and numbing despair seizes the faculties and energies in her sepulchral grasp, how is it that superhuman strength is often suddenly infused into the sinking spirit? There is a mysterious yet resistless power given, which winds up and sets again in motion that marvelous bit of mechanism, the human will; that curiously intricate combination of wheels; that mainspring of action, which has baffled the ingenuity of philosophers, and remains yet undiscovered, behind the cloudy shrine of the unknown. Now, there are times when this human clock well-nigh runs down; when it seems that volition is dead; when the past is all gilded, the future all shrouded, and the soul grows passive, hoping nothing, fearing nothing. Yet when the slowly swinging pendulum seems about to rest, even then an unseen hand touches the secret spring; and, as the curiously folded coil quivers on again, the resuscitated will is lifted triumphantly back to its throne. This newborn power is from God. But, ye wise ones of earth, tell us how, and by whom, is the key applied? Are ministering angels (our white- robed idols, our loved dead) ordained to keep watch over the machinery of the will and attend to the winding up? Or is this infusion of strength, whereby to continue its operations, a sudden tightening of those invisible cords which bind the All-Father to the spirits he has created? Truly, there is no Oedipus for this vexing riddle. Many luckless theories have been devoured by the Sphinx; when will metaphysicians solve it? One tells us vaguely enough, "Who knows the mysteries of will, with its vigor? Man doth not yield him to the angels, nor unto death, utterly, save only through the weakness of his feeble will." This pretty bubble of a "latent strength" has vanished; the power is from God; but who shall unfold the process? Clara felt that this precious help was given in her hour of need; and, looking up undauntedly to the clouds that darkened her sky, said to her hopeless heart: "I will live to do my duty, and God's work on eirth; I will go bravely forward in my path of labor, strewing flowers and sunshine. If God needs a lonely, chastened spirit to do his behests, oh! shall I murmur and die because I am chosen? What are the rushing, howling waves of life in comparison with the calm, shoreless ocean of all eternity?"

The lamp was brought in and the fire renewed, and the two friends sat by the hearth, silent, quiet. Clara's face had a sweet, serene look: Beulah's was composed, so far as rigidity of features betokened; yet the firm curve of her full upper lip might have indexed somewhat of the confusion which reigned in her mind. Once a great, burning light flashed out from her eyes, then the lashes drooped a little and veiled the storm. After a time Clara lifted her eyes, and said gently:

"Will you read to me, Beulah?"

"Gladly, gladly; what shall it be?" She sprang up eagerly.

"Anything hopeful and strengthening. Anything but your study-books of philosophy and metaphysics. Anything but those, Beulah."

"And why not those?" asked the girl quickly.

"Because they always confuse and darken me."

"You do not understand them, perhaps?"

"I understand them sufficiently to know that they are not what I need."

"What do you need, Clara?"

"The calm content and courage to do my duty through life. I want to be patient and useful."

The gray eyes rested searchingly on the sweet face, and then, with a contracted brow, Beulah stepped to the window and looked out. The night was gusty, dark, and rainy; heavy drops pattered briskly down the panes. She turned away, and, standing on the hearth, with her hands behind her, slowly repeated the beautiful lines, beginning:

"'The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight.'"

Her voice was low and musical, and, as she concluded the short poem which seemed so singularly suited to Clara's wishes, the latter said earnestly:

"Yes, yes, Beulah,"

"'Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer.'"

"Let us obey the poet's injunction, and realize the closing lines:"

"'And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.'"

Still Beulah stood on the hearth, with a dreamy abstraction looking out from her eyes, and when she spoke there was a touch of impatience in her tone:

"Why try to escape it all, Clara? If those 'grand old masters,' those 'bards sublime,' who tell us in trumpet-tones of 'life's endless toil and endeavor,' speak to you through my loved books, why should you 'long for rest'?"

"An unfledged birdling cannot mount to the dizzy eyries of the eagle," answered Clara meekly.

"One grows strong only by struggling with difficulties. Strong swimmers are such from fierce buffetings with hungry waves. Come out of your warm nest of inertia! Strengthen your wings by battling with storm and wind!" Her brow bent as she spoke.

"Beulah, what sustains you would starve me."

"Something has come over you, Clara."

"Yes; a great trust in God's wisdom and mercy has stolen into my heart. I no longer look despondingly into my future."

"Why? Because you fancy that future will be very short and painless? Ah, Clara, is this trust, when the end comes and there is no more work to do?"

"You are mistaken; I do not see Death beckoning me home. Oh, I have not earned a home yet! I look forward to years of labor, profit, and peace. To-day I found some lines in the morning paper. Nay, don't curl your lips with a sneer at what you call 'newspaper poetry.' Listen to the words that came like a message from the spirit-land to my murmuring heart." Her voice was low and unsteady, as she read:

"'Two hands upon the breast, and labor's done; Two pale feet crossed in rest, the race is won. Two eyes with coin-weights shut, all tears cease; Two lips where grief is mute, and wrath at peace. So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot; God, in his kindness, answereth not!'"

"Such, Beulah, I felt had been my unvoiced prayer; but now!"

"'Two hands to work addressed; aye, for his praise, Two feet that never rest; walking his ways; Two eyes that look above, still through all tears; Two lips that breathe but love; never more fears. SO WE CRY AFTERWARD, LOW AT OUR KNEES. PARDON THOSE ERRING CRIES! FATHER, HEAR THESE!"

"Oh Beulah, such is now my prayer."

As Beulah stood near the lamp, strange shadows fell on her brow; shadows from the long, curling lashes. After a brief silence, she asked earnestly:

"Are your prayers answered, Clara? Does God hear you?"

"Yes; oh, yes!" "Wherefore?"

"Because Christ died!"

"Is your faith in Christ so firm? Does it never waver?"

"Never; even in my most desponding moments."

Beulah looked at her keenly; and asked, with something like a shiver:

"Did it never occur to you to doubt the plan of redemption, as taught by divines, as laid down in the New Testament?"

"No, never. I want to die before such a doubt occurs to me. Oh, what would my life be without that plan? What would a fallen, sin-cursed world be without a Jesus?"

"But why curse a race in order to necessitate a Saviour?"

Clara looked in astonishment at the pale, fixed features before her. A frightened expression came over her own countenance, a look of shuddering horror; and, putting up her wasted hands, as if to ward off some grim phantom, she cried:

"Oh, Beulah! what is this? You are not an infidel?"

Her companion was silent a moment; then said emphatically:

"Dr. Hartwell does not believe the religion you hold so dear."

Clara covered her face with her hands, and answered brokenly:

"Beulah, I have envied you, because I fancied that your superior intellect won you the love which I was weak enough to expect and need. But if it has brought you both to doubt the Bible, I thank God that the fatal gift was withheld from me. Have your books and studies brought you to this? Beulah! Beulah! throw them into the fire, and come back to trust in Christ."

She held out her hands imploringly; but, with a singularly cold smile, her friend replied:

"You must go to sleep. Your fever is rising. Don't talk any more to- night; I will not hear you."

An hour after Clara slept soundly, and Beulah sat in her own room bending over a book. Midnight study had long since become an habitual thing; nay, two and three o'clock frequently found her beside the waning lamp. Was it any marvel that, as Dr. Hartwell expressed it, she "looked wretched." From her earliest childhood she had been possessed by an active spirit of inquiry which constantly impelled her to investigate, and as far as possible to explain, the mysteries which surrounded, her on every side. With her growth grew this haunting spirit, which asked continually: "What am I? Whence did I come? And whither am I bound? What is life? What is death? Am I my own mistress, or am I but a tool in the hands of my Maker? What constitutes the difference between my mind and my body? Is there any difference? If spirit must needs have body to incase it, and body must have a spirit to animate it, may they not be identical? With these primeval foundation questions began her speculative career. In the solitude of her own soul she struggled bravely and earnestly to answer those "dread questions, which, like swords of flaming fire, tokens of imprisonment, encompass man on earth." Of course mystery triumphed. Panting for the truth, she pored over her Bible, supposing that here, at least, all clouds would melt away; but here, too, some inexplicable passages confronted her. Physically, morally, and mentally she found the world warring. To reconcile these antagonisms with the conditions and requirements of Holy Writ, she now most faithfully set to work. Ah, proudly aspiring soul! How many earnest thinkers had essayed the same mighty task, and died under the intolerable burden? Unluckily for her, there was no one to direct or assist her. She scrupulously endeavored to conceal her doubts and questions from her guardian. Poor child? she fancied she concealed them so effectually from his knowledge; while he silently noted the march of skepticism in her nature. There were dim, puzzling passages of Scripture which she studied on her knees; now trying to comprehend them, and now beseeching the Source of all knowledge to enlighten her. But, as has happened to numberless others, there was seemingly no assistance given. The clouds grew denser and darker, and, like the "cry of strong swimmers in their agony," her prayers had gone up to the Throne of Grace. Sometimes she was tempted to go to the minister of the church where she sat Sunday after Sunday, and beg him to explain the mysteries to her. But the pompous austerity of his manners repelled her whenever she thought of broaching the subject, and gradually she saw that she must work out her own problems. Thus, from week to week and month to month, she toiled on, with a slowly dying faith, constantly clambering over obstacles which seemed to stand between her trust and revelation. It was no longer study for the sake of erudition; these riddles involved all that she prized in Time and Eternity, and she grasped books of every description with the eagerness of a famishing nature. What dire chance threw into her hands such works as Emerson's, Carlyle's, and Goethe's? Like the waves of the clear, sunny sea, they only increased her thirst to madness. Her burning lips were ever at these fountains; and, in her reckless eagerness, she plunged into the gulf of German speculation. Here she believed that she had indeed found the "true processes," and, with renewed zest, continued the work of questioning. At this stage of the conflict the pestilential scourge was laid upon the city, and she paused from her metaphysical toil to close glazed eyes and shroud soulless clay. In the awful hush of those hours of watching she looked calmly for some solution, and longed for the unquestioning faith of early years. But these influences passed without aiding her in the least, and, with rekindled ardor, she went back to her false prophets. In addition, ethnology beckoned her on to conclusions apparently antagonistic to the revealed system, and the stony face of geology seemed radiant with characters of light, which she might decipher and find some security in. From Dr. Asbury's extensive collection she snatched treatise after treatise. The sages of geology talked of the pre-Adamic eras, and of man's ending the slowly forged chain, of which the radiata form the lowest link; and then she was told that in those pre-Adamic ages paleontologists find no trace whatever of that golden time when the vast animal creation lived in harmony and bloodshed was unknown; ergo, man's fall in Eden had no agency in bringing death into the world; ergo, that chapter in Genesis need puzzle her no more.

Finally, she learned that she was the crowning intelligence in the vast progression; that she would ultimately become part of Deity. "The long ascending line, from dead matter to man, had been a progress Godward, and the next advance would unite creation and Creator in one person." With all her aspirations she had never dreamed of such a future as was here promised her. To-night she was closely following that most anomalous of all guides, "Herr Teufelsdrockh." Urged on by the same "unrest," she was stumbling along dim, devious paths, while from every side whispers came to her: "Nature is one: she is your mother, and divine: she is God! The 'living garment of God.'" Through the "everlasting No," and the "everlasting Yea," she groped her way, darkly, tremblingly, waiting for the day-star of Truth to dawn; but, at last, when she fancied she saw the first rays silvering the night, and looked up hopefully, it proved one of many ignes-fatui which had flashed across her path, and she saw that it was Goethe, uplifted as the prophet of the genuine religion. The book fell from her nerveless fingers; she closed her eyes, and groaned. It was all "confusion, worse confounded." She could not for her life have told what she believed, much less what she did not believe. The landmarks of earlier years were swept away; the beacon light of Calvary had sunk below her horizon. A howling chaos seemed about to ingulf her. At that moment she would gladly have sought assistance from her guardian; but how could she approach him after their last interview? The friendly face and cordial kindness of Dr. Asbury flashed upon her memory, and she resolved to confide her doubts and difficulties to him, hoping to obtain from his clear and matured judgment some clew which might enable her to emerge from the labyrinth that involved her. She knelt and tried to pray. To what did she, on bended knees, send up passionate supplications? To nature? to heroes? These were the new deities. She could not pray; all grew dark; she pressed her hands to her throbbing brain, striving to clear away the mists. "Sartor" had effectually blindfolded her, and she threw herself down to sleep with a shivering dread, as of a young child separated from its mother, and wailing in some starless desert.



CHAPTER XXI.

It was Christmas Eve—cold, cloudy, and damp. The store windows were gay with every conceivable and inconceivable device for attracting attention. Parents, nurses, and porters hurried along with mysterious looking bundles and important countenances. Crowds of curious, merry children thronged the sidewalks; here a thinly clad, meager boy, looked, with longing eyes and empty pockets, at pyramids of fruit and sweetmeats; and there a richly dressed group chattered like blackbirds, and occasionally fired a pack of crackers, to the infinite dismay of horses and drivers. Little chaps just out of frocks rushed about, with their round, rosy faces hid under grotesque masks; and shouts of laughter, and the squeak of penny trumpets, and mutter of miniature drums swelled to a continuous din, which would have been quite respectable even on the plain of Shinar. The annual jubilee had come, and young and old seemed determined to celebrate it with due zeal. From her window Beulah looked down on the merry groups, and involuntarily contrasted the bustling, crowded streets with the silence and desolation which had reigned over the same thoroughfares only a few months before. One brief year ago childish voices prattled of Santa Claus and gift stockings, and little feet pattered along these same pavements, with tiny hands full of toys. Fond parents, too, had gone eagerly in and out of these gay shops, hunting presents for their darlings. Where were they? children and parents? Ah! a cold, silent band of sleepers in yonder necropolis, where solemn cedars were chanting an everlasting dirge. Death's harvest time was in all seasons; when would her own throbbing pulses be stilled and her questioning tones hushed? Might not the summons be on that very wintry blast which rushed over her hot brow? And if it should be so? Beulah pressed her face closer to the window, and thought it was too inconceivable that she also should die. She knew it was the common birthright, the one unchanging heritage of all humanity; yet long vistas of life opened before her, and though, like a pall, the shadow of the tomb hung over the end, it was very distant, very dim.

"What makes you look so solemn?" asked Clara, who had been busily engaged in dressing a doll for one of Mrs. Hoyt's children.

"Because I feel solemn, I suppose."

Clara came up and, passing her arm round Beulah's shoulder, gazed down into the noisy street. She still wore mourning, and the alabaster fairness of her complexion contrasted vividly with the black bombazine dress. Though thin and pale, there was an indescribable expression of peace on the sweet face; a calm, clear light of contentment in the mild, brown eyes. The holy serenity of the countenance was rendered more apparent by the restless, stormy visage of her companion. Every passing cloud of perplexed thought cast its shadow over Beulah's face, and on this occasion she looked more than usually grave.

"Ah, how merry I used to be on Christmas Eve! Indeed, I can remember having been half wild with excitement. Yet now it all seems like a flitting dream." Clara spoke musingly, yet without sadness.

"Time has laid his wonder-working touch upon you," answered Beulah.

"How is it, Beulah, that you never speak of your childhood?"

"Because it was

"All dark and barren as a rainy sea."

"But you never talk about your parents?"

"I love my father's memory. Ah! it is enshrined in my heart's holiest sanctuary. He was a noble, loving man, and my affection for him bordered on idolatry."

"And your mother?"

"I knew little of her. She died before I was old enough to remember much about her."

Her face was full of bitter recollections; her eyes seemed wandering through some storehouse of sorrows. Clara feared her friend, much as she loved her, and since the partial discovery of her skepticism she had rather shunned her society. Now she watched the heavy brow and deep, piercing eyes uneasily, and, gently withdrawing her arm, she glided out of the room. The tide of life still swelled through the streets, and, forcibly casting the load of painful reminiscences from her, Beulah kept her eyes on the merry faces, and listened to the gay, careless prattle of the excited children. The stately rustle of brocaded silk caused her to look up, and Cornelia Graham greeted her with:

"I have come to take you home with me for the holidays."

"I can't go."

"Why not? You cling to this dark garret of yours as if it possessed all the charms of Vaucluse."

"Diogenes loved his tub, you know," said Beulah quietly.

"An analogous case, truly. But, jesting aside, you must come, Beulah. Eugene expects you; so do my parents; and, above all, I want you. Come." Cornelia laid her hand on the girl's shoulders as she spoke.

"You have been ill again," said Beulah, examining the sallow face.

"Not ill, but I shall be soon, I know. One of my old attacks is coming on; I feel it; and Beulah, to be honest, which I can with you (without casting pearls before swine), that very circumstance makes me want you. I dined out to-day, and have just left the fashionable crowd to come and ask you to spend the holidays with me. The house will be gay. Antoinette intends to have a set of tableaux; but it is probable I shall be confined to my room. Will you give your time to a cross invalid, for such I certainly am? I would be stretched upon St. Lawrence's gridiron before I could be brought to say as much to anybody else. I am not accustomed to ask favors, Beulah; it has been my habit to grant them. Nevertheless, I want you, and am not too proud to come after you. Will you come?"

"Yes, if I may remain with you altogether."

"Thank you. Come, get ready, quick! Give me a fan." Sinking into a chair, she wiped away the cold drops which had collected about her brow.

"Cornelia, I have only one day's leisure. School begins again day after to-morrow."

"Well, well; one day, then. Be quick!"

In a few moments Beulah was ready; and, after informing Clara and Mrs. Hoyt of her intended absence, the two entered Mr. Graham's elegant carriage. The gas was now lighted, and the spirited horses dashed along through streets brilliantly illuminated and thronged with happy people.

"What a Babel! About equal to Constantinople, and its dog- orchestra," muttered Cornelia, as the driver paused to allow one of the military companies to pass. The martial music, together with the hubbub which otherwise prevailed, alarmed the horses, and they plunged violently. The driver endeavored to back out into an alley; but, in the attempt, the carriage was whirled round, the coachman jerked over the dashboard into the gutter, and the frightened animals dashed at furious speed down the main street. Luckily the top was thrown back, making the carriage open, and, springing forward to the post so unceremoniously vacated by the driver, Beulah snatched the reins, which were just within her reach. Curb the rushing horses she did not hope to do; but, by cautious energy, succeeded in turning them sufficiently aside to avoid coming in collision with several other carriages. The street was full of vehicles, and though, as may well be imagined, there was every effort made to give the track, the carriage rushed against the bright yellow wheels of a light buggy in which two young men were trying to manage a fast trotter. There was a terrible smash of wheels, the young gentlemen were suddenly landed in the mud, and their emancipated steed galloped on, with the wreck of the buggy at his heels. Men, women, and children gathered on the corners to witness the denouement. Drays, carts, and wagons were seized with a simultaneous stampede, which soon cleared the middle of the street, and, uninjured by the collision, our carriage flew on. Cornelia sat on the back seat, ghastly pale and motionless, expecting every minute to be hurled out, while Beulah stood up in front, reins in hand, trying to guide the maddened horses. Her bonnet fell off; the motion loosened her comb, and down came her long, heavy hair in black, blinding folds. She shook it all back from her face, and soon saw that this reckless game of dodging vehicles could not last much longer. Straight ahead, at the end of the street, was the wharf, crowded with cotton bales, barrels, and a variety of freight; just beyond was the river. A number of gentlemen stood on a neighboring corner, and with one impulse they rushed forward with extended arms. On sprang the horses almost upon them; eager hands grasped at the bits.

"Stand back-all of you! You might as well catch at the winds!" shouted Beulah, and, with one last effort, she threw, her whole weight on the reins and turned the horses into a cross street. The wheels struck the curbstone, the carriage tilted, rocked, fell back again, and on they went for three squares more, when the horses stopped short before the livery stable where they were kept. Embossed with foam, and panting like stags at bay, they were seized by a dozen hands.

"By all the gods of Greece! you have had a flying trip of it!" cried Dr. Asbury, with one foot on the carriage step and both hands extended, while his gray hair hung in confusion about his face. He had followed them for at least half a dozen blocks, and was pale with anxiety.

"See about Cornelia," said Beulah, seating herself for the first time and twisting up the veil of hair which swept round her form.

"Cornelia has fainted! Halloo, there! some water! quick!" said the doctor, stepping into the carriage and attempting to lift the motionless figure. But Cornelia opened her eyes, and answered unsteadily:

"No! carry me home! Dr. Asbury, take me home!"

The brilliant eyes closed, a sort of spasm distorted her features, and she sank back once more, rigid and seemingly lifeless. Dr. Asbury took the reins firmly in his hands, seated himself, and, speaking gently to the trembling horses, started homeward. They plunged violently at first, but he used the whip unsparingly, and in a few moments they trotted briskly along. Mrs. Graham and her niece had not yet reached home, but Mr. Graham met the carriage at the door, with considerable agitation and alarm in his usually phlegmatic countenance. As Cornelia's colorless face met his view, he threw up his hands, staggered back, and exclaimed:

"My God! is she dead? I knew it would end this way some day!"

"Nonsense, Graham! She is frightened out of her wits—that is all. These Yankee horses of yours have been playing the very deuce. Clear the way there, all of you!"

Lifting Cornelia in his strong arms, Dr. Asbury carried her up to her own room and placed her on a sofa. Having known her from childhood, and treated her so often in similar attacks, he immediately administered some medicine, and ere long had the satisfaction of seeing the rigid aspect leave her face. She sat up, and, without a word, began to take off her kid gloves, which fitted tightly. Suddenly looking up at her father, who was anxiously regarding her, she said abruptly:

"There are no more like her. She kept me from making a simpleton of myself."

"Whom do you mean, my dear?"

"Whom? whom? Why, Beulah Benton, of course! Where is she? Come out of that corner, you quaint, solemn statue!" She held out her hand, and a warm, glad smile broke over her pallid face as Beulah approached her.

"You certainly created a very decided sensation. Beulah made quite a passable Medea, with her inky hair trailing over the back of the seat, and her little hands grasping the reins with desperate energy. By Phoebus! you turned that corner at the bank like an electric bolt. Shake hands, Beulah! After this you will do in any emergency." The doctor looked at her with an expression of paternal pride and affection.

"I feel very grateful to you," began Mr. Graham; but Beulah cut short his acknowledgments by saying hastily:

"Sir, I did nothing at all; Dr. Asbury is resolved to make a heroine of me, that is all. You owe me nothing."

At this moment the coachman limped into the room, with garments dabbled with mud, and inquired anxiously whether the young ladies were hurt.

"No, you son of Pluto; not hurt at all, thanks to your careful driving," answered the doctor, putting his hands in his pockets and eying the discomfited coachman humorously.

"Were you hurt by your fall?" asked Beulah.

"Considerable bumped and thumped, but not much hurt, thank you, miss. I was awfully scared when I rose out of that choking gutter, and saw you standing up, and the horses flying like ole Satan himself was after them. I am marvelous glad nothing was hurt. And now, master, sir, I want you to go to the mayor and have this 'ere firecracker business stopped. A parcel of rascally boys set a match to a whole pack and flung 'em right under Andrew Jackson's feet! Of course I couldn't manage him after that. I 'clare to gracious! it's a sin and a shame the way the boys in this town do carry on Christmas times and, indeed, every other time!" Wilson hobbled out, grumbling audibly.

"Beulah, you must come and spend Christmas at my house. The girls and my wife were talking about it to-day, and concluded to send the carriage for you early in the morning." The doctor drew on his gloves as he spoke.

"They may spare themselves the trouble, sir; she spends it with me," answered Cornelia.

"With you! After such a frolic as you two indulged in this evening, you ought not to be trusted together. If I had not been so anxious about you I could have laughed heartily at the doleful countenances of those two young gents, as they picked themselves up out of the mud. Such rueful plight as their lemon-colored gloves were in! I will send Hartwell to see you to-morrow, Cornelia. A merry Christmas to you all, in spite of your Mazeppa episode." His good-humored countenance vanished.

"There comes Antoinette ejaculating up the steps. Father, tell her I do not want to see her, or anybody else. Don't let her come in here!" cried Cornelia, with a nervous start, as voices were heard in the passage.

Mr. Graham, who felt a certain awe of his willful child, notwithstanding his equable temper, immediately withdrew. His wife hastened into the room, and, with trembling lips touched her daughter's cheek and brow, exclaiming:

"Oh, my child, what a narrow escape! It is horrible to think of— horrible!"

"Not at all, mother, seeing that nothing was hurt in the least. I was sick, any way, as I told you. Don't you see Beulah sitting there?"

Mrs. Graham welcomed her guest cordially.

"You have a great deal of presence of mind, I believe, Miss Beulah? You are fortunate."

"I thanked my stars that Antoinette was not in the carriage; for most certainly she would have made matters worse, by screaming like an idiot and jumping out. Beulah taught me common sense," answered Cornelia, unclasping a bracelet and tossing a handful of jewelry across the room to her dressing table.

"You underrate yourself, my dear," said her mother, a little proudly.

"Not at all. Humility, genuine or feigned, is not one of our family traits. Mother, will you send up tea for us? We want a quiet time; at least, I do, and Beulah will stay with me."

"But, my love, it is selfish to exclude the balance of the family. Why not come down to the sitting room, where we can all be together?" pleaded the mother.

"Because I prefer staying just where I am. Beulah, put down that window, will you? Mary must think that I have been converted into a Polar bear; and, mother, have some coal brought up. If there is any truth in the metempsychosis of the Orient, I certainly was a palm tree or a rhinoceros in the last stage of my existence." She shivered, and wrapped a heavy shawl up to her very chin.

"May I come in?" asked Eugene, at the door.

"No; go and sing duets with Netta, and amuse yourself downstairs," said she shortly, while a frown darkened her face.

Nevertheless he came in, shook hands with Beulah, and, leaning over the back of Cornelia's chair, asked tenderly:

"How is my sister? I heard on the street that you were injured."

"Oh, I suppose the whole city will be bemoaning my tragic fate. I am not at all hurt, Eugene."

"You have had one of those attacks, though; I see from your face. Has it passed off entirely?"

"No; and I want to be quiet. Beulah is going to read me to sleep after a while. You may go down now."

"Beulah, you will be with us to-morrow, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"I am sorry I am obliged to dine out; I shall be at home, however, most of the day. I called the other evening, but you were not at home."

"Yes; I was sorry I did not see you," said Beulah, looking steadily at his flushed face and sparkling eyes.

"Dine out, Eugene! For what, I should like to know?" cried Cornelia, raising herself in her chair and fixing her eyes impatiently upon him. "Henderson and Milbank are both here, you know, and I could not refuse to join them in a Christmas dinner."

"Then why did you not invite them to dine at your own house?" Her voice was angry; her glance searching.

"The party was made up before I knew anything about it. They will all be here in the evening."

"I doubt it!" said she sneeringly. The flush deepened on his cheek and he bit his lip; then, turning suddenly to Beulah, he said, as he suffered his eyes to wander over her plain, fawn-colored merino dress:

"You have not yet heard Netta sing, I believe!"

"No."

"Where is she, Cornelia?"

"I have no idea."

"I hope my sister will be well enough to take part in the tableaux to-morrow evening." Taking her beautifully molded hand, he looked at her anxiously. Her piercing, black eyes were riveted on his countenance, as she answered:

"I don't know, Eugene; I have long since abandoned the hope of ever being well again. Perhaps I may be able to get down to the parlors. There is Antoinette in the passage. Good-night." She motioned him away.

He kissed her tenderly, shook hands a second time with Beulah, and left the room. Cornelia bowed her head on her palms; and, though her features were concealed, Beulah thought she moaned, as if in pain.

"Cornelia, are you ill again? What can I do for you?"

The feeble woman lifted her haggard face, and answered:

"What can you do? That remains to be seen. Something must be done. Beulah, I may die at any hour, and you must save him."

"What do you mean?" Beulah's heart throbbed painfully as she asked this simple question.

"You know very well what I mean! Oh, Beulah! Beulah! it bows my proud spirit into the dust!" Again she averted her head; there was a short silence. Beulah leaned her face on her hand, and then Cornelia continued:

"Did you detect it when he first came home?"

"Yes."

"Oh, it is like a hideous nightmare! I cannot realize that Eugene, so noble, so pure, so refined, could ever have gone to the excesses he has been guilty of. He left home all that he should be; but five years abroad have strangely changed him. My parents will not see it; my mother says 'All young men are wild at first'; and my father shuts his eyes to his altered habits. Eugene constantly drinks too much. I have never seen him intoxicated. I don't know that he has been since he joined us in Italy; but I dread continually lest his miserable associates lead him further astray. I had hoped that, in leaving his companions at the university, he had left temptation too; but the associates he has found here are even worse. I hope I shall be quiet in my grave before I see him drunk. It would kill me, I verily believe, to know that he had so utterly degraded himself."

She shaded her face with her hands, and Beulah replied hastily:

"He surely cannot fall so low! Eugene will never reel home, an unconscious drunkard! Oh, no, it is impossible! impossible! The stars in heaven will fall first!"

"Do you believe what you say?"

"I hope it; and hope engenders faith," answered Beulah.

A bitter smile curled Cornelia's lips, and, sinking back in her chair, she continued:

"Where excessive drinking is not considered a disgrace, young men indulge without a thought of the consequences. Instead of excluding them from genteel circles, their dissipation is smoothed over, or unnoticed; and it has become so prevalent in this city that of all the gentlemen whom I meet in so-called fashionable society, there are very few who abstain from the wine-cup. I have seen them at parties, staggering through a quadrille, or talking the most disgusting nonsense to girls, who have long since ceased to regard dissipation as a stigma upon the names and characters of their friends. I tell you the dissipation of the young men here is sickening to think of. Since I came home I have been constantly reminded of it; and oh, Eugene is following in their disgraceful steps! Beulah, if the wives, and mothers, and sisters did their duty, all this might be remedied. If they carefully and constantly strove to shield their sons and brothers from temptation they might preserve them from the fatal habit, which, once confirmed, it is almost impossible to eradicate. But alas! they smile as sweetly upon the reckless, intoxicated beaux as if they were what men should be. I fancied that I could readily redeem Eugene from his dangerous lapses, but my efforts are rendered useless by the temptations which assail him from every quarter. He shuns me; hourly the barriers between us strengthen. Beulah, I look to you. He loves you, and your influence might prevail, if properly directed. You must save him! You must!"

"I have not the influence you ascribe to me," answered Beulah.

"Do not say so! do not say so! Are you not to be his wife one day?" She stood up, and heavy drops glistened on her pale forehead.

"His wife! Cornelia Graham, are you mad?" cried Beulah, lifting her head proudly, and eying her companion with unfeigned astonishment, while her eyes burned ominously.

"He told me that he expected to marry you; that it had always been a settled thing. Beulah, you have not broken the engagement—surely you have not?" She grasped Beulah's arm convulsively.

"No positive engagement ever existed. While we were children we often spoke of our future as one, but of late neither of us has alluded to the subject. We are only friends, linked by memories of early years. Nay, since his return, we have almost become strangers."

"Then I have been miserably deceived. Not two months since, he told me that he looked upon you as his future wife. What has alienated you? Beulah Benton, do you not love him?"

"Love him! No!"

"You loved him once—hush! don't deny it! I know that you did. You loved him during his absence, and you must love him still. Beulah, you do love him!"

"I have a true sisterly affection for him; but as for the love which you allude to, I tell you, Cornelia, I have not one particle!"

"Then he is lost!" Sinking back in her chair, Cornelia groaned aloud.

"Why Eugene should have made such an impression on your mind, I cannot conjecture. He has grown perfectly indifferent to me; and even if he had not, we could never be more than friends. Boyish fancies have all passed away. He is a man now—still my friend, I believe; but no longer what he once was to me. Cornelia, I, too, see his growing tendency to dissipation, with a degree of painful apprehension which I do not hesitate to avow. Though cordial enough when we meet, I know and feel that he carefully avoids me. Consequently, I have no opportunity to exert what little influence I may possess. I looked at his flushed face just now, and my thoughts flew back to the golden days of his boyhood, when he was all that a noble, pure, generous nature could make him. I would ten thousand times rather know that he was sleeping by my little sister's side in the graveyard than see him disgrace himself!" Her voice faltered, and she drooped her head to conceal the anguish which convulsed her features.

"Beulah, if he loves you still, you will not reject him?" cried Cornelia eagerly.

"He does not love me."

"Why will you evade me? Suppose that he does?"

"Then I tell you solemnly, not all Christendom could induce me to marry him!"

"But to save him, Beulah! to save him!" replied Cornelia, clasping her hands entreatingly.

"If a man's innate self-respect will not save him from habitual, disgusting intoxication, all the female influence in the universe would not avail. Man's will, like woman's, is stronger than his affection, and, once subjugated by vice, all external influences will be futile. If Eugene once sinks so low, neither you, nor I, nor his wife—had he one—could reclaim him."

"He has deceived me! Fool that I was not to probe the mask!" Cornelia started up and paced the floor with uncontrollable agitation.

"Take care how you accuse him rashly! I am not prepared to believe that he could act dishonorably toward anyone. I will not believe it." "Oh, you, too, will get your eyes open in due time! Ha! it is all as clear as daylight! And I, with my boasted penetration!—it maddens me!" Her eyes glittered like polished steel.

"Explain yourself; Eugene is above suspicion!" cried Beulah, with pale, fluttering lips.

"Explain myself! Then understand that my honorable brother professed to love you, and pretended that he expected to marry you, simply and solely to blind me, in order to conceal the truth. I taxed him with a preference for Antoinette Dupres, which I fancied his manner evinced. He denied it most earnestly, protesting that he felt bound to you. Now do you understand?" Her lips were white, and writhed with scorn.

"Still you may misjudge him," returned Beulah haughtily.

"No, no! My mother has seen it all along. But, fool that I was, I believed his words! Now, Beulah, if he marries Antoinette, you will be amply revenged, or my name is not Cornelia Graham!" She laughed bitterly, and, dropping some medicine from a vial, swallowed the potion and resumed her walk up and down the floor.

"Revenged! What is it to me, that he should marry your cousin? If he loves her, it is no business of mine, and certainly you have no right to object. You are miserably deceived if you imagine that his marriage would cause me an instant's regret. Think you I could love a man whom I knew to be my inferior? Indeed, you know little of my nature." She spoke with curling lips and a proud smile.

"You place an exalted estimate upon yourself," returned Cornelia.

They looked at each other half-defiantly for a moment; then the heiress bowed her head, and said, in low, broken tones:

"Oh, Beulah, Beulah! child of poverty! would I could change places with you!"

"You are weak, Cornelia," answered Beulah gravely.

"In some respects, perhaps, I am; but you are bold to tell me so."

"Genuine friendship ignores all hesitancy in speaking the truth. You sought me. I am very candid—perhaps blunt. If my honesty does not suit you it is an easy matter to discontinue our intercourse. The whole matter rests with you."

"You wish me to understand that you do not need my society—my patronage?"

"Patronage implies dependence, which, in this instance, does not exist. An earnest, self-reliant woman cannot be patronized, in the sense in which you employ the term." She could not forbear smiling. The thought of being under patronage was, to her, supremely ridiculous.

"You do not want my friendship, then?"

"I doubt whether you have any to bestow. You seem to have no love for anything," replied Beulah coldly.

"Oh, you wrong me!" cried Cornelia passionately.

"If I do, it is your own fault. I only judge you from what you have shown of your nature."

"Remember, I have been an invalid all my life."

"I am not likely to forget it in your presence. But, Cornelia, your whole being seems embittered."

"Yes; and you will be just like me when you have lived as long as I have. Wait till you have seen something of the world."

"Sit down, Cornelia; you tremble from head to foot." She drew a chair close to the hearth, and the sufferer sank into it, as if completely exhausted. For some time neither spoke. Beulah stood with her hands on the back of the chair, wishing herself back in her quiet little room. After a while Cornelia said slowly:

"If you only knew Antoinette as well as I do you could ill brook the thought of her ever being Eugene's wife."

"He is the best judge of what will promote his happiness."

"No; he is blinded, infatuated. Her pretty face veils her miserable, contemptible defects of character. She is utterly unworthy of him."

"If she loves him sincerely, she will—"

"Don't talk of what you do not understand. She is too selfish to love anything or anybody but herself. Mark me, whether I live to see it or not, if he marries her, he will despise her in less than six months, and curse himself for his blind folly. Oh, what a precious farce it will prove!" She laughed sneeringly.

"Cornelia, you are not able to bear this excitement. For the present, let Eugene and his future rest and try to compose yourself. You are so nervous you can scarcely sit still."

The colorless face, with its gleaming eyes, was suddenly lifted; and, throwing her arms round Beulah's neck, Cornelia rested her proud head on the orphan's shoulder.

"Be my friend while I live. Oh, give me some of your calm contentment, some of your strength!"

"I am your friend, Cornelia; I will always be such; but every soul must be sufficient for itself. Do not look to me; lean upon your own nature; it will suffice for all its needs."

With the young teacher, pity was almost synonymous with contempt; and, as she looked at the joyless face of her companion, she could not avoid thinking her miserably weak.



CHAPTER XXII.

Christmas Day was sunny and beautiful. The bending sky was as deeply blue as that which hung over Bethlehem eighteen hundred years before; God's coloring had not faded. Happy children prattled as joyously as did the little Jew boys who clustered curiously about the manger to gaze upon the holy babe, the sleeping Jesus. Human nature had not altered one whit beneath the iron wheel of Time. Is there a man so sunk in infamy or steeped in misanthropy that he has not, at some period of his life, exclaimed, in view of earth's fadeless beauty:

"'This world is very lovely. O my God! I thank Thee that I live.'"

Alas for the besotted soul who cannot bend the knee of humble adoration before nature's altar, where sacrifices are offered to the Jehovah, pavilioned in invisibility. There is an ardent love of nature as far removed from gross materialism or subtle pantheism on the one hand as from stupid inappreciation on the other. There is such a thing as looking "through nature up to nature's God," notwithstanding the frightened denials of those who, shocked at the growing materialism of the age, would fain persuade this generation to walk blindfold through the superb temple a loving God has placed us in. While every sane and earnest mind must turn, disgusted and humiliated, from the senseless rant which resolves all divinity into materialistic elements, it may safely be proclaimed that genuine aesthetics is a mighty channel through which the love and adoration of Almighty God enters the human soul. It were an insult to the Creator to reject the influence which even the physical world exerts on contemplative natures. From bald, hoary mountains, and somber, solemn forests; from thundering waves and wayside violets; from gorgeous sunset clouds, from quiet stars and whispering winds, come unmistakable voices, hymning of the Eternal God—the God of Moses, of Isaac, and of Jacob. Extremes meet in every age, and in every department. Because one false philosophy would deify the universe, startled opponents tell us to close our ears to these musical utterances and shut our eyes to glorious nature, God's handiwork. Oh! why has humanity so fierce a hatred of medium paths?

Ragged boys and barefooted girls tripped gayly along the streets, merry and uncomplaining; and, surrounded by velvet, silver, and marble, by every superfluity of luxury, Cornelia Graham, with a bitter heart and hopeless soul, shivered in her easy-chair before a glowing fire. The Christmas sunlight crept in through the heavy crimson curtains and made gorgeous fret-work on the walls, but its cheering radiance mocked the sickly pallor of the invalid, and, as Beulah retreated to the window and peeped into the street, she felt an intense longing to get out under the blue sky once more. Mr. and Mrs. Graham and Antoinette sat round the hearth, discussing the tableaux for the evening, while, with her cheek upon her hand, Cornelia listlessly fingered a diamond necklace which her father had just given her. The blazing jewels slipped through her pale fingers all unnoticed, and she looked up abstractedly when Mr. Graham touched her, and repeated his question for the third time.

"My child, won't you come down to the sitting room?"

"No, sir; I am better here."

"But you will be so lonely."

"Not with Beulah."

"But, of course, Miss Benton will desire to see the tableaux. You would not keep her from them?" remonstrated her father.

"Thank you, Mr. Graham, I prefer remaining with Cornelia," answered Beulah, who had no wish to mingle in the crowd which, she understood from the conversation, would assemble that evening in the parlors. The trio round the hearth looked at each other, and evidently thought she manifested very heathenish taste. Cornelia smiled, and leaned back with an expression of pleasure which very rarely lighted her face.

"You are shockingly selfish and exacting," said Antoinette, curling her long ringlets over her pretty fingers and looking very bewitching. Her cousin eyed her in silence, and not particularly relishing her daughter's keen look Mrs. Graham rose, kissed her forehead, and said gently:

"My love, the Vincents, and Thorntons. and Hendersons all sent to inquire after you this morning. Netta and I must go down now and prepare for our tableaux. I leave you in good hands. Miss Benton is considered an admirable nurse, I believe."

"Mother, where is Eugene?"

"I really do not know. Do you, Mr. Graham?"

"He has gone to the hotel to see some of his old Heidelberg friends," answered Netta, examining Beulah's plain merino dress very minutely as she spoke.

"When he comes home be good enough to tell him that I wish to see him."

"Very well, my dear." Mrs. Graham left the room, followed by her husband and niece.

For some time Cornelia sat just as they left her; the diamond necklace slipped down and lay a glittering heap on the carpet, and the delicate waxen hands drooped listlessly over the arms of the chair. Her profile was toward Beulah, who stood looking at the regular, beautiful features, and wondering how (with so many elements of happiness in her home) she could seem so discontented. She was thinking, too, that there was a certain amount of truth in that persecuted and ignored dictum, "A man only sees that which he brings with him the power of seeing," when Cornelia raised herself, and, turning her head to look for her companion, said slowly:

"Where are you? Do you believe in the Emersonian 'law of compensation,' rigid and inevitable as fate? I say, Beulah, do you believe it?"

"Yes; I believe it."

"Hand me the volume there on the table. His exposition of 'the absolute balance of Give and Take, the doctrine that everything has its price,' is the grandest triumph of his genius. For an hour this sentence has been ringing in my ears: 'In the nature of the soul is the compensation for the inequalities of condition.' We are samples of the truth of this. Ah, Beulah, I have paid a heavy, heavy price! You are destitute of one, it is true, but exempt from the other. Yet, mark you, this law of 'compensation' pertains solely to earth and its denizens; the very existence and operation of the law precludes the necessity, and I may say the possibility, of that future state, designed, as theologians argue, for rewards and punishments." She watched her visitor very closely.

"Of course it nullifies the belief in future adjustments, for he says emphatically, 'Justice is not postponed. A perfect equity adjusts its balance in all parts of life.' 'What will you have? Pay for it, and take it. Nothing venture, nothing have.' There is no obscurity whatever in that remarkable essay on compensation." Beulah took up one of the volumes, and turned the pages carelessly.

"But all this would shock a Christian."

"And deservedly; for Emerson's works, collectively and individually, are aimed at the doctrines of Christianity. There is a grim, terrible fatalism scowling on his pages which might well frighten the reader who clasped the Bible to his heart."

"Yet you accept his 'compensation.' Are you prepared to receive his deistic system?" Cornelia leaned forward and spoke eagerly. Beulah smiled.

"Why strive to cloak the truth? I should not term his fragmentary system 'deistic.' He knows not yet what he believes. There are singular antagonisms existing among even his pet theories."

"I have not found any," replied Cornelia, with a gesture of impatience.

"Then you have not studied his works as closely as I have done. In one place he tells you he feels 'the eternity of man, the identity of his thought,' that Plato's truth and Pindar's fire belong as much to him as to the ancient Greeks, and on the opposite page, if I remember aright, he says, 'Rare extravagant spirits come by us at intervals, who disclose to us new facts in nature. I see that men of God have, from time to time, walked among men, and made their commission felt in the heart and soul of the commonest hearer. Hence, evidently the tripod, the priest, the priestess, inspired by the divine afflatus.' Thus at one moment he finds no 'antiquity in the worships of Moses, of Zoroaster, of Menu, or Socrates; they are as much his as theirs,' and at another clearly asserts that spirits do come into the world to discover to us new truths. At some points we are told that the cycles of time reproduce all things; at others, this theory is denied. Again, in 'Self-Reliance,' he says,' Trust thyself; insist on yourself; obey thy heart, and thou shalt reproduce the foreworld again.' All this was very comforting to me, Cornelia; self-reliance was the great secret of success and happiness; but I chanced to read the 'Over-soul' soon after, and lo! these words: 'I am constrained every moment to acknowledge a higher origin for events than the will I call mine.' This was directly antagonistic to the entire spirit of 'self-reliance'; but I read on, and soon found the last sentence utterly nullified by one which declared positively 'that the Highest dwells with man; the sources of nature are in his own mind.' Sometimes we are informed that our souls are self-existing and all-powerful; an incarnation of the divine and universal, and, before we fairly digest this tremendous statement, he coolly asserts that there is, above all, an 'over- soul,' whose inevitable decrees upset our plans, and 'overpower private will.' Cognizant of these palpable contradictions, Emerson boldly avows and defends them, by declaring that 'A foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. With consistency a great soul has simply nothing to do. Speak what you think now in hard words; and to-morrow speak what to-morrow thinks in hard words again, though it contradict everything you said to-day. Why should you keep your head over your shoulder? Why drag about this corpse of your memory, lest you contradict somewhat you have stated in this or that public place? Suppose you should contradict yourself?' His writings are, to me, like heaps of broken glass, beautiful in the individual crystal, sparkling and often dazzling, but gather them up and try to fit them into a whole, and the jagged edges refuse to unite. Certainly, Cornelia, you are not an Emersonian." Her deep, quiet eyes looked full into those of the invalid.

"Yes, I am. I believe in that fatalism which he shrouds under the gauze of an 'Over-soul,'" replied Cornelia impressively.

"Then you are a fair sample of the fallacy of his system, if the disjointed bits of logic deserve the name."

"How so?"

"He continually exhorts to a happy, contented, and uncomplaining frame of mind; tells you sternly that 'Discontent is the want of self-reliance; it is infirmity of will.'"

"You are disposed to be severe," muttered Cornelia, with an angry flash.

"What? because I expect his professed disciple to obey his injunctions?"

"Do you, then, conform so irreproachably to your own creed? Pray, what is it?"

"I have no creed. I am honestly and anxiously hunting one. For a long time I thought that I had found a sound one in Emerson. But a careful study of his writings taught me that of all Pyrrhonists he is the prince. Can a creedless soul aid me in my search? Verily, no. He exclaims, 'To fill the hour—that is happiness; to fill the hour, and leave no crevice for repentance or an approval. We live amid surfaces, and the true art of life is to skate well on them.' Now this sort of oyster existence does not suit me, Cornelia Graham, nor will it suit you."

"You do him injustice. He has a creed (true, it is pantheistic), which he steadfastly adheres to under all circumstances."

"Oh, has he! indeed? Then he flatly contradicts you when he says, 'But lest I should mislead any, when I have my own head, and obey my whims, let me remind the reader that I am only an experimenter. Do not set the least value on what I do, or the least discredit on what I do not, as if I pretended to settle anything as true or false. I unsettle all things. No facts are to me sacred; none are profane. I simply experiment, an endless seeker, with no past at my back.' To my fancy that savors strongly of nihilism, as regards creeds."

"There is no such passage in Emerson!" cried Cornelia, stamping one foot, unconsciously, on her blazing necklace.

"Yes, the passage is, word for word, as I quoted it, and you will find it in 'Circles.'"

"I have read 'Circles' several times, and do not remember it. At all events, it does not sound like Emerson."

"For that matter, his own individual circle of ideas is so much like St. Augustine's Circle, of which the center is everywhere and the circumference nowhere,' that I am not prepared to say what may or may not be found within it. You will ultimately think with me that, though an earnest and profound thinker, your master is no Memnon, waking only before the sunlight of truth. His utterances are dim and contradictory."

She replaced the book on the table, and, taking up a small basket, resumed her sewing.

"But, Beulah, did you not accept his 'Law of Compensation'?"

"I believe its operations are correct as regards mere social position—wealth, penury, even the endowments of genius. But further than this I do not accept it. I want to believe that my soul is immortal. Emerson's 'Duration of the Attributes of the Soul' does not satisfy me. I desire something more than an immutability, or continued existence hereafter, in the form of an abstract idea of truth, justice, love, or humility."

Cornelia looked at her steadily, and, after a pause, said with indescribable bitterness and despair:

"If our past and present shadows the future, I hope that my last sleep may be unbroken and eternal."

Beulah raised her head and glanced searchingly at her companion; then silently went on with her work.

"I understand your honest face. You think I have no cause to talk so. You see me surrounded by wealth,—petted, indulged in every whim,—and you fancy that I am a very enviable woman; but—"

"There you entirely mistake me," interrupted Beulah, with a cold smile.

"You think that I ought to be very happy and contented, and useful in the sphere in which I move; and regard me, I know, as a weak hypochondriac. Beulah, physicians told me, long ago, that I lived upon the very brink of the grave; that I might die at any moment, without warning. My grandmother and one of my uncles died suddenly with this disease of the heart, and the shadow of death seems continually around me; it will not be dispelled—it haunts me forever. 'Boast not thyself of to-morrow,' said the preacher; but I cannot even boast of to-day, or this hour. The world knows nothing of this; it has been carefully concealed by my parents; but I know it! and, Beulah, I feel as did that miserable, doomed prisoner of Poe's 'Pit and Pendulum,' who saw the pendulum, slowly but surely, sweeping down upon him. My life has been a great unfulfilled promise. With what are generally considered elements of happiness in my home, I have always been solitary and unsatisfied. Conscious of my feeble tenure on life, I early set out to anchor myself in a calm faith which would secure me a happy lot in eternity. My nature was strongly religious, and I longed to find hope and consolation in some of our churches. My parents always had a pew in the fashionable church in this city. You need not smile—I speak advisedly when I say 'fashionable' church; for, assuredly, fashion has crept into religion also, nowadays. From my childhood I was regularly dressed and taken to church; but I soon began to question the sincerity of the pastor and the consistency of the members. Sunday after Sunday I saw them in their pews, and week after week listened to their gossiping, slanderous chit-chat. Prominent members busied themselves about charitable associations, and headed subscription lists, and all the while set examples of frivolity, heartlessness, and what is softly termed 'fashionable excesses,' which shocked my ideas of Christian propriety and disgusted me with the mockery their lives presented. I watched the minister in his social relations, and, instead of reverencing him as a meek and holy man of God, I could not forbear looking with utter contempt upon his pompous, self- sufficient demeanor toward the mass of his flock; while to the most opulent and influential members he bowed down, with a servile, fawning sycophancy absolutely disgusting. I attended various churches, listening to sermons, and watching the conduct of the prominent professing Christians of each. Many gave most liberally to so-called religious causes and institutions, and made amends by heavily draining the purses of widows and orphans. Some affected an ascetical simplicity of dress, and yet hugged their purses where their Bibles should have been. It was all Mammon worship; some grossly palpable, some adroitly cloaked under solemn faces and severe observance of the outward ceremonials. The clergy, as a class, I found strangely unlike what I had expected. Instead of earnest zeal for the promotion of Christianity, I saw that the majority were bent only on the aggrandizement of their particular denomination. Verily, I thought in my heart, 'Is all this bickering the result of their religion? How these churches do hate each other!' According to each, salvation could only be found in their special tenets—within the pale of their peculiar organization; and yet, all professed to draw their doctrines from the same book; and, Beulah, the end of my search was that I scorned all creeds and churches, and began to find a faith outside of a revelation which gave rise to so much narrow-minded bigotry—so much pharisaism and delusion. Those who call themselves ministers of the Christian religion should look well to their commissions, and beware how they go out into the world, unless the seal of Jesus be indeed upon their brows. They offer themselves as the Pharos of the people, but ah! they sometimes wreck immortal souls by their unpardonable inconsistencies. For the last two years I have been groping my way after some system upon which I could rest the little time I have to live. Oh, I am heartsick and despairing!"

"What? already! Take courage, Cornelia; there is truth somewhere," answered Beulah, with kindling eyes.

"Where, where? Ah! that echo mocks you, turn which way you will. I sit like Raphael-Aben-Ezra—at the 'Bottom of the Abyss,' but, unlike him, I am no Democritus to jest over my position. I am too miserable to laugh, and my grim Emersonian fatalism gives me precious little comfort, though it is about the only thing that I do firmly believe in."

She stooped to pick up her necklace, shook it in the glow of the fire until a shower of rainbow hues flashed out, and, holding it up, asked contemptuously:

"What do you suppose this piece of extravagance cost?"

"I have no idea."

"Why, fifteen hundred dollars—that is all! Oh, what is the blaze of diamonds to a soul like mine, shrouded in despairing darkness, and hovering upon the very confines of eternity, if there be any!" She threw the costly gift on the table and wearily closed her eyes.

"You have become discouraged too soon, Cornelia. Your very anxiety to discover truth evinces its existence, for Nature always supplies the wants she creates!"

"You will tell me that this truth is to be found down in the depths of my own soul; for, no more than logic, has it ever been discovered 'parceled and labeled.' But how do I know that all truth is not merely subjective? Ages ago, skepticism intrenched itself in an impregnable fortress: 'There is no criterion of truth.' How do I know that my 'true,' 'good,' and 'beautiful' are absolutely so? My reason is no infallible plummet to sound the sea of phenomena and touch noumena. I tell you, Beulah, it is all—"

A hasty rap at the door cut short this discussion, and, as Eugene entered, the cloud on Cornelia's brow instantly lifted. His gay Christmas greeting and sunny, handsome face diverted her mind, and, as her hand rested on his arm, her countenance evinced a degree of intense love such as Beulah had supposed her incapable of feeling.

"It is very selfish, sister mine, to keep Beulah so constantly beside you, when we all want to see something of her."

"Was I ever anything else but selfish?"

"But I thought you prided yourself on requiring no society?"

"So I do, as regards society in general; but Beulah is an exception."

"You intend to come down to-night, do you not?"

"Not if I can avoid it. Eugene, take Beulah into the parlor, and ask Antoinette to sing. Afterward make Beulah sing, also, and be sure to leave all the doors open, so that I can hear. Mind, you must not detain her long."

Beulah would have demurred, but at this moment she saw Dr. Hartwell's buggy approaching the house. Her heart seemed to spring to her lips, and, feeling that after their last unsatisfactory interview she was in no mood to meet him, she quickly descended the steps, so blinded by haste that she failed to perceive the hand Eugene extended to assist her. The door-bell uttered a sharp peal as they reached the hall, and she had just time to escape into the parlor when the doctor was ushered in.

"What is the matter?" asked Eugene, observing the nervous flutter of her lips.

"Ask Miss Dupres to sing, will you?"

He looked at her curiously an instant, then turned away and persuaded the little beauty to sing.

She took her seat, and ran her jeweled fingers over the pearl keys with an air which very clearly denoted her opinion, of her musical proficiency.

"Well, sir, what will you have?"

"That favorite morceau from 'Linda.'"

"You have never heard it, I suppose," said she, glancing over her shoulder at the young teacher.

"Yes; I have heard it," answered Beulah, who could with difficulty repress a smile.

Antoinette half shrugged her shoulders, as if she thought the statement questionable, and began the song. Beulah listened attentively; she was conscious of feeling more than ordinary interest in this performance, and almost held her breath as the clear, silvery voice caroled through the most intricate passages. Antoinette had been thoroughly trained, and certainly her voice was remarkably sweet and flexible; but as she concluded the piece and fixed her eyes complacently on Beulah, the latter lifted her head in proud consciousness of superiority.

"Sing me something else," said she.

Antoinette bit her lips, and answered ungraciously:

"No; I shall have to sing to-night, and can't wear myself out."

"Now, Beulah, I shall hear you. I have sought an opportunity ever since I returned." Eugene spoke rather carelessly.

"Do you really wish to hear me, Eugene?"

"Of course I do," said he, with some surprise.

"And so do I," added Mrs. Graham, leaning against the piano, and exchanging glances with Antoinette.

Beulah looked up, and asked quietly:

"Eugene, shall I sing you a ballad? One of those simple old tunes we used to love so well in days gone by."

"No, no. Something operatic!" cried Antoinette, without giving him an opportunity to reply.

"Well, then, Miss Dupres; select something."

"Can't you favor us with 'Casta-Diva'?" returned the beauty,—with something very like a sneer.

Beulah's eyes gave a momentary flash; but by a powerful effort she curbed her anger and commenced the song.

It was amusing to mark the expression of utter astonishment which gradually overspread Antoinette's face, as the magnificent voice of her despised rival swelled in waves of entrancing melody through the lofty rooms. Eugene looked quite as much amazed. Beulah felt her triumph, and heartily enjoyed it. There was a sparkle in her eye and a proud smile on her lip, which she did not attempt to conceal. As she rose from the piano, Eugene caught her hand, and said eagerly:

"I never dreamed of your possessing such a voice. It is superb— perfectly magnificent! Why did not you tell me of it before?"

"You heard it long ago, in the olden time," said she, withdrawing her hand and looking steadily at him.

"Ah, but it has improved incredibly. You were all untutored then."

"It is the culture, then, not the voice itself? Eh, Eugene?"

"It is both. Who taught you?"

"I had several teachers, but owe what excellence I may possess to my guardian. He aided me more than all the instruction books that ever were compiled."

"You must come and practice with the musical people who meet here very frequently," said Mrs. Graham.

"Thank you, madam; I have other engagements which will prevent my doing so."

"Nonsense, Beulah; we have claims on you. I certainly have," answered Eugene.

"Have you? I was not aware of the fact."

There was a patronizing manner in all this which she felt no disposition to submit to.

"Most assuredly I have, Beulah; and mean to maintain them."

She perfectly understand the haughty expression of his countenance, and, moving toward the door, replied coldly:

"Another time, Eugene, we will discuss them."

"Where are you going?" inquired Mrs. Graham rather stiffly.

"To Cornelia. The doctor came down a few minutes since."

She did not pause to hear what followed, but ran up the steps, longing to get out of a house where she plainly perceived her presence was by no means desired. Cornelia sat with her head drooped on her thin hand, and, without looking up, said, more gently than was her custom:

"Why did you hurry back so soon?"

"Because the parlor was not particularly attractive."

There came the first good-humored laugh which Beulah had ever heard from Cornelia's lips, as the latter replied:

"What friends you and old growling Diogenes would have been! Pray, how did my cousin receive your performance!"

"Very much as if she wished me amid the ruins of Persepolis, where I certainly shall be before I inflict anything more upon her. Cornelia, do not ask or expect me to come here again, for I will not; of course, it is quite as palpable to you as to me that I am no favorite with your parents, and something still less with your cousin. Consequently, you need not expect to see me here again."

"Do not say so, Beulah; you must, you shall come, and I will see that no one dares interfere with my wishes. As for Antoinette, she is simply a vain idiot; you might just as well be told the truth, for doubtless you will see it for yourself. She is my mother's niece, an only child, and possessed of considerable wealth. I suppose it is rather natural that my parents should fondle the idea of her being Eugene's wife. They do not see how utterly unsuited they are. Eugene will, of course, inherit the fortune which I once imagined I should have the pleasure of squandering. My father and mother dread lest Eugene should return to his 'boyish fancy' (as you are pleased to term it), and look on you with jealous eyes. Oh, Mammon is the God of this generation. But, Beulah, you must not allow all this miserable maneuvering to keep you from me. If you do, I will very soon succeed in making this home of mine very unpleasant for Antoinette Dupres. When I am dead she can wheedle my family as successfully as they choose to permit; but while I do live she shall forbear. Poor, contemptible human nature! Verily, I rejoice sometimes when I remember that I shall not be burdened with any of it long." An angry spot burned on each pallid cheek, and the beautiful mouth curled scornfully.

"Do not excite yourself so unnecessarily, Cornelia. What you may or may not think of your relatives is no concern of mine. You have a carriage always at your command, and when you desire to see a real friend, you can visit me. Let this suffice for this subject. Suppose we have a game of chess or backgammon? What do you say?"

She wheeled a light table toward the hearth; but the invalid motioned it away, and answered moodily:

"I am in no humor for games. Sit down and tell me about your leaving Dr. Hartwell's protection."

"I have nothing to tell."

"He is a singular being?"

Receiving no answer, she added impatiently:

"Don't you think so?"

"I do, in the sense of great superiority."

"The world is not so flattering in its estimate."

"No; for slander loves a lofty mark."

"Beulah Benton, do you mean that for me?"

"Not unless you feel that it applies to you particularly."

"If he is so faultless and unequaled, pray, why did not you remain in his house?"

"I am not in the habit of accounting to anyone for my motives or my actions." She lifted her slender form haughtily.

"In which case the public has a habit of supplying both."

"Then accept its fabrications."

"You need not be so fierce. I like Dr. Hartwell quite as well as you do, I dare say; but probably I know more of his history."

"It is all immaterial to me. Drop the subject, if you please, and let me read to you. I believe I came here for quiet companionship, not recrimination and cross-questioning."

"Beulah, the world says you are to marry your guardian. I do not ask from impertinent curiosity, but sincere friendship—is it true?"

"About as true as your notion of my marriage with Eugene. No; scarcely so plausible."

"Our families were connected, you know."

"No; I neither know, nor wish to know. He never alluded to his wife, or his history, and I have just now no desire to hear anything about the matter. He is the best friend I ever had; I want to honor and reverence him always; and, of course, the world's version of his domestic affairs does him injustice. So be good enough to say no more about him."

"Very well. On hearing your voice from the parlor he left a small parcel, which he requested me to give you. He laid it on the table, I believe; yes, there it is. Now read 'Egmont' to me, if you please."

Cornelia crossed the room, threw herself on a couch, and settled her pillow comfortably. Beulah took the parcel, which was carefully sealed, and wondered what it contained. It was heavy and felt hard. They had parted in anger; what could it possibly be? Cornelia's black eyes were on her countenance. She put the package in her pocket, seated herself by the couch, and commenced "Egmont." It was with a feeling of indescribable relief that the orphan awoke, at dawn the following morning, and dressed by the gray twilight. She had fallen asleep the night before amid the hum of voices, of laughter, and of dancing feet. Sounds of gayety, from the merry party below, had found their way to the chamber of the heiress, and when Beulah left her at midnight she was still wakeful and restless. The young teacher could not wait for the late breakfast of the luxurious Grahams, and, just as the first level ray of sunshine flashed up from the east, she tied on her bonnet and noiselessly entered Cornelia's room. The heavy curtains kept it close and dark, and on the hearth a taper burned with pale, sickly light. Cornelia slept soundly; but her breathing was heavy and irregular, and the face wore a scowl, as if some severe pain had distorted it. The ivory-like arms were thrown up over the head, and large drops glistened on the wan brow. Beulah stood beside the bed a few minutes; the apartment was furnished with almost Oriental splendor; but how all this satin, and rosewood, and silver, and marble mocked the restless, suffering sleeper! Beulah felt tears of compassion weighing down her lashes, as she watched the haggard countenance of this petted child of fortune; but, unwilling to rouse her, she silently stole down the steps. The hall was dark; the smell of gas almost stifling. Of course, the servants followed the example of their owners, and, as no one appeared, she unlocked the street door, and walked homeward with a sensation of pleasurable relief which impressed itself very legibly on her face. The sky was cloudless; the early risen run looked over the earth in dazzling radiance; and the cold, pure, wintry air made the blood tingle in Beulah's veins. A great, unspeakable joy filled her soul; the uplifted eyes beamed with gladness; her brave, hopeful spirit looked into the future with unquestioning trust; and, as the image of her unhappy friend flitted across her mind, she exclaimed:

"This world is lull of beauty, like other worlds above, And if we did our duty, it might be full of loe."

She ran up to her room, threw open the blinds, looped back the curtains, and drew that mysterious package from her pocket. She was very curious to see the contents, and broke the seal with trembling fingers. The outer wrappings fell off, and disclosed an oblong, papier-mache case. It opened with a spring, and revealed to her a beautiful watch and chain, bearing her name in delicate tracery. A folded slip of paper lay on the crimson velvet lining of the box, and, recognizing the characters, she hastily read this brief sentence:

"Wear it constantly, Beulah, to remind you that, in adversity, you still have

"A GUARDIAN."

Tears gushed unrestrained, as she looked at the beautiful gift. Not for an instant did she dream, of accepting it, and she shrank shudderingly from widening the breach which already existed by a refusal. Locking up the slip of paper in her workbox, she returned the watch to its case and carefully retied the parcel. Long before she had wrapped the purse in paper and prevailed on Clara to give it to the doctor. He had received it without comment; but she could not return the watch in the same way, for Clara was now able to attend regularly to her school duties, and it was very uncertain when she would see him. Yet she felt comforted, for this gift assured her that, however coldly he chose to treat her when they met, he had not thrown her off entirely. With all her independence, she could not bear the thought of his utter alienation; and the consciousness of his remaining interest thrilled her heart with gladness.



CHAPTER XXIII.

One Saturday morning, some days subsequent to her visit to the Grahams, Beulah set off for the business part of the city. She was closely veiled, and carried under her shawl a thick roll of neatly written paper. A publishing house was the place of her destination; and, as she was ushered into a small back room, to await the leisure of the gentleman she wished to see, she could not forbear smiling at the novelty of her position and the audacity of the attempt she was about to make. There she sat in the editor's sanctum, trying to quiet the tumultuous beating of her heart. Presently a tall, spare man, with thin, cadaverous visage, entered, bowed, took a chair, and eyed her with a "what-do-you-want" sort of expression. His grizzled hair was cut short, and stood up like bristles, and his keen blue eyes were by no means promising, in their cold glitter. Beulah threw off her veil and said, with rather an unsteady voice:

"You are the editor of the magazine published here, I believe?"

He bowed again, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his hands at the back of his head.

"I came to offer you an article for the magazine." She threw down the roll of paper on a chair.

"Ah!—hem!—will you favor me with your name?"

"Beulah Benton, sir. One altogether unknown to fame."

He contracted his eyes, coughed, and said constrainedly:

"Are you a subscriber?"

"I am."

"What is the character of your manuscript?" He took it up as he spoke, and glanced over the pages.

"You can determine that from a perusal. If the sketch suits you, I should like to become a regular contributor."

A gleam of sunshine strayed over the countenance, and the editor answered, very benignly:

"If the article meets with our approbation, we shall be very happy to afford you a medium of publication in our journal. Can we depend on your punctuality?"

"I think so. What are your terms?"

"Terms, madam? I supposed that your contribution was gratuitous," said he very loftily.

"Then you are most egregiously mistaken! What do you imagine induces me to write?"

"Why, desire for fame, I suppose."

"Fame is rather unsatisfactory fare. I am poor, sir, and write to aid me in maintaining myself."

"Are you dependent solely on your own exertions, madam?"

"Yes."

"I am sorry I cannot aid you; but nowadays there are plenty of authors who write merely as a pastime, and we have as many contributions as we can well look over."

"I am to understand, then, that the magazine is supported altogether by gratuitous contributions?" said Beulah, unable to repress a smile.

"Why, you see, authorship has become a sort of luxury," was the hesitating reply.

"I think the last number of your magazine contained, among other articles in the 'Editor's Drawer,' an earnest appeal to Southern authors to come to the rescue of Southern periodicals?"

"True, madam. Southern intellect seems steeped in a lethargy from which we are most faithfully endeavoring to arouse it."

"The article to which I allude also animadverted severely upon the practice of Southern authors patronizing Northern publishing establishments?"

"Most certainly it treated the subject stringently." He moved uneasily.

"I believe the subscription is the same as that of the Northern periodicals?"

A very cold bow was the only answer.

"I happen to know that Northern magazines are not composed of gratuitous contributions; and it is no mystery why Southern authors are driven to Northern publishers. Southern periodicals are mediums only for those of elegant leisure, who can afford to write without remuneration. With the same subscription price, you cannot pay for your articles. It is no marvel that, under such circumstances, we have no Southern literature. Unluckily, I belong to the numerous class who have to look away from home for remuneration. Sir, I will not trouble you with my manuscript." Rising, she held out her hand for it; but the keen eyes had fallen upon a paragraph which seemed to interest the editor, and, knitting his brows, he said reluctantly:

"We have not been in the habit of paying for our articles; but I will look over this, and perhaps you can make it worth our while to pay you. The fact is, madam, we have more trash sent us than we can find room for; but if you can contribute anything of weight, why, it will make a difference, of course. I did not recognize you at first, but I now remember that I heard your valedictory to the graduating class of the public schools. If we should conclude to pay you for regular contributions, we wish nothing said about it."

"Very well. If you like the manuscript, and decide to pay me, you can address me a note through the post office. Should I write for the magazine I particularly desire not to be known." She lowered her veil, and most politely he bowed her out.

She was accustomed to spend a portion of each Saturday in practicing duets with Georgia Asbury, and thither she now directed her steps. Unluckily, the parlor was full of visitors, and, without seeing any of the family, she walked back into the music room. Here she felt perfectly at home, and, closing the door, forgot everything but her music. Taking no heed of the lapse of time, she played piece after piece, until startled by the clear tones of the doctor's voice. She looked up, and saw him standing in the door which opened into the library, taking off his greatcoat.

"Why Beulah, that room is as cold as a Texas norther! What on earth are you doing there without a fire? Come in here, child, and warm your frozen digits. Where are those two harum-scarum specimens of mine?"

"I believe they are still entertaining company, sir. The parlor was full when I came, and they know nothing of my being here." She sat down by the bright fire, and held her stiff fingers toward the glowing coals.

"Yes, confound their dear rattlepates; that is about the sum-total of their cogitations." He drew up his chair, put his feet on the fender of the grate, and, lighting his cigar, added:

"Is my spouse also in the parlor?"

"I suppose so, sir."

"Time was, Beulah, when Saturday was the great day of preparation for all housekeepers. Bless my soul! My mother would just about as soon have thought of anticipating the discovery of the open Polar Sea, by a trip thither, as going out to visit on Saturday. Why, from my boyhood, Saturday has been synonymous with scouring, window washing, pastry baking, stocking darning, and numerous other venerable customs, which this age is rapidly dispensing with. My wife had a lingering reverence for the duties of the day, and tried to excuse herself, but I suppose those pretty wax dolls of mine have coaxed her into 'receiving,' as they call it. Beulah, my wife is an exception; but the mass of married women nowadays, instead of being thorough housewives (as nature intended they should), are delicate, do-nothing, know-nothing, fine ladies. They have no duties. 'O tempora, O mores!'" He paused to relight his cigar, and, just then, Georgia came in, dressed very richly. He tossed the taper into the grate, and exclaimed, as she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him: