Day after day passed monotonously, and, except a visit from Eugene, there was no link added to the chain which bound Beulah to the past. That brief visit encouraged and cheered the lonely heart, yearning for affectionate sympathy, yet striving to hush the hungry cry and grow contented with its lot. During the second week of her stay little Johnny was taken sick, and he had become so fond of his new attendant that no one else was permitted to hold him. Often she paced the chamber floor for hours, lulling the fretful babe with softly sung tunes of other days, and the close observer, who could have peered at such times into the downcast eyes, might have easily traced in the misty depths memories that nestled in her heart's sanctuary. The infant soon recovered, and one warm, sunny afternoon, when Mrs. Martin directed Beulah to draw him in his wicker carriage up and down the pavement before the door, she could no longer repress the request which had trembled on her lips more than once, and asked permission to take her little charge to Mrs. Grayson's. A rather reluctant assent was given, and soon the carriage was drawn in the direction of Mr. Grayson's elegant city residence. A marvelous change came over the wan face of the nurse as she paused at the marble steps, guarded on either side by sculptured lions. "To see Lilly." The blood sprang to her cheeks, and an eager look of delight crept into the eyes. The door was partially opened by an insolent-looking footman, whose hasty glance led him to suppose her one of the numerous supplicants for charity, who generally left that princely mansion as empty-handed as they came. He was about to close the door; but, undaunted by this reception, she hastily asked to see Mrs. Grayson and Lillian Benton.

"Mrs. Grayson is engaged, and there is no such person here as Lillian Benton. Miss Lilly Grayson is my young mistress' name; but I can tell you, her mamma don't suffer her to see the like of you; so be off."

"Lilly is my sister, and I must see her. Tell Mrs. Grayson Beulah Benton wishes to see her sister; and ask her also if Claudia may not see me."

She dropped the tongue of the carriage, and the thin hands clutched each other in an agony of dread, lest her petition should be refused. The succeeding five minutes seemed an eternity to her, and, as the door opened again, she leaned forward and held her breath, like one whose fate was in the balance. Costly silk and dazzling diamonds met her gaze. The settled lines of Mrs. Grayson's pretty mouth indicated that she had a disagreeable duty to perform, yet had resolved to do it at once, and set the matter forever at rest.

"You are Mrs. Martin's nurse, I believe, and the girl I saw at the asylum?" said she frigidly.

"Yes, madam; I am Lilly's sister; you said I might come and see her. Oh, if you only knew how miserable I have been since we were parted, you would not look so coldly at me! Do, please, let me see her. Oh, don't deny me!"

These words were uttered in a tone of imploring agony.

"I am very sorry you happen to be her sister, and I assure you, child, it pains me to refuse you; but, when you remember the circumstances, you ought not to expect to associate with her as you used to do. She will be educated to move in a circle very far above you; and you ought to be more than willing to give her up, when you know how lucky she has been in securing a home of wealth. Besides, she is getting over the separation very nicely indeed, and if she were to see you even once it would make matters almost as bad as ever. I dare say you are a good girl, and will not trouble me any further. My husband and I are unwilling that you should see Lilly again; and though I am very sorry I am forced to disappoint you, I feel that I am doing right."

The petitioner fell on her knees, and, extending her arms, said huskily:

"Oh, madam! are we to be parted forever? I pray you, in the name of
God, let me see her! let me see her!"

Mrs. Grayson was not a cruel woman, far from it, but she was strangely weak and worldly. The idea of a hired nurse associating familiarly with her adopted daughter was repulsive to her aristocratic pride, and therefore she hushed the tones of true womanly sympathy, and answered resolutely:

"It pains me to refuse you; but I have given good reasons, and cannot think of changing my determination. I hope you will not annoy me by any future efforts to enter my house. There is a present for you. Good-evening."

She tossed a five-dollar gold piece toward the kneeling figure, and, closing the door, locked it on the inside. The money rolled ringingly down the steps, and the grating sound of the key, as it was hurriedly turned, seemed typical of the unyielding lock which now forever barred the child's hopes. The look of utter despair gave place to an expression of indescribable bitterness. Springing from her suppliant posture, she muttered with terrible emphasis:

"A curse on that woman and her husband! May God answer their prayers as she has answered mine!"

Picking up the coin which lay glittering on the sidewalk, she threw it forcibly against the door, and, as it rebounded into the street, took the carriage tongue, and slowly retraced her steps. It was not surprising that passers-by gazed curiously at the stony face, with its large eyes, brimful of burning hate, as the injured orphan walked mechanically on, unconscious that her lips were crushed till purple drops oozed over them. The setting sun flashed his ruddy beams caressingly over her brow, and whispering winds lifted tenderly the clustering folds of jetty hair; but nature's pure- hearted darling had stood over the noxious tarn, whence the poisonous breath of a corrupt humanity rolled upward, and the once sinless child inhaled the vapor until her soul was a great boiling Marah. Ah, truly

"There are swift hours in life—strong, rushing hours—That do the work of tempests in their might!"

Peaceful valleys, green and flowery, sleeping in loveliness, have been unheaved, and piled in somber, jagged masses, against the sky, by the fingering of an earthquake; and gentle, loving, trusting hearts, over whose altars brooded the white-winged messengers of God's peace, have been as suddenly transformed by a manifestation of selfishness and injustice, into gloomy haunts of misanthropy. Had Mrs. Grayson been arraigned for cruelty, or hard-heartedness, before a tribunal of her equals (i. e., fashionable friends), the charge would have been scornfully repelled, and unanimous would have been her acquittal. "Hard-hearted! oh, no! she was only prudent and wise." Who could expect her to suffer her pampered, inert darling to meet and acknowledge as an equal the far less daintily fed and elegantly clad sister, whom God called to labor for her frugal meals? Ah, this fine-ladyism, this ignoring of labor, to which, in accordance with the divine decree, all should be subjected: this false-effeminacy, and miserable affectation of refinement, which characterizes the age, is the unyielding lock on the wheels of social reform and advancement.

Beulah took her charge home, and when dusk came on rocked him to sleep, and snugly folded the covering of his crib over the little throbbing heart, whose hours of trial were yet veiled by the impenetrable curtain of futurity. Mrs. Martin and her elder children had gone to a concert, and, of course, the nurse was to remain with Johnny until his mother's return. Standing beside the crib, and gazing down at the rosy cheeks and curling locks, nestled against the pillow, Beulah's thoughts winged along the tear-stained past, to the hour when Lilly had been placed in her arms, by emaciated hands stiffening in death. For six years she had held, and hushed, and caressed her dying father's last charge, and now strange, ruthless fingers had torn the clinging heart-strings from the idol. There were no sobs, nor groans, to voice the anguish of the desolate orphan. The glittering eyes were tearless, but the brow was darkly furrowed, the ashy lips writhed, and the folded hands were purple from compression. Turning from the crib, she threw up the sash, and seated herself on the window-sill. Below lay the city, with its countless lamps gleaming in every direction, and stretching away on the principal streets, like long processions; in the distance the dark waters of the river, over which steamboat lights flashed now and then like ignesfatui; and above her arched the dome of sky, with its fiery fretwork. Never before had she looked up at the starry groups without an emotion of exulting joy, of awful adoration. To her worshiping gaze they had seemed glimpses of the spirit's home; nay, loving eyes shining down upon her thorny pathway. But now, the twinkling rays fell unheeded, impotent to pierce the sable clouds of grief. She sat looking out into the night, with strained eyes that seemed fastened upon a corpse. An hour passed thus, and, as the clang of the town clock died away the shrill voice of the watchman rang through the air:

"Nine o'clock; and all's well!"

Beulah lifted her head, and listened. "All's well!" The mockery maddened her, and she muttered audibly:

"That is the sort of sympathy I shall have through life. I am to hear that 'all is well' when my heart is dying, nay, dead within me! Oh, if I could only die! What a calm, calm time I should have in my coffin! Nobody to taunt me with my poverty and ugliness! Oh, what did God make me for? The few years of my life have been full of misery; I cannot remember one single day of pure happiness, for there was always something to spoil what little joy I ever knew. When I was born, why did not I die at once? And why did not God take me instead of my dear, dear father? He should have been left with Lilly, for people love the beautiful, but nobody will ever care for me. I am of no use to anything, and so ugly that I hate myself. O Lord, I don't want to live another day! I am sick of my life—take me, take me!" But a feeble ray of comfort stole into her shivering heart, as she bowed her head upon her hands; Eugene Graham loved her; and the bleeding tendrils of affection henceforth clasped him as their only support. She was aroused from her painful reverie by a movement in the crib, and, hastening to her charge, was startled by the appearance of the babe. The soft blue eyes were rolled up and set, the face of a purplish hue, and the delicate limbs convulsed. During her residence at the asylum she had more than once assisted the matron in nursing children similarly affected; and now, calling instantly for a tub of water, she soon immersed the rigid limbs in a warm bath, while one of the waiters was dispatched for the family physician. When Dr. Hartwell entered he found her standing with the infant clasped in her arms, and, as his eyes rested curiously upon her face, she forgot that he was a stranger, and, springing to meet him, exclaimed:

"Oh, sir; will he die?"

With his fingers on the bounding pulse, he answered:

"He is very ill. Where is his mother? Who are you?"

"His mother is at a concert, and I am his nurse."

The spasms had ceased, but the twitching limbs told that they might return any moment, and the physician immediately administered a potion.

"How long will Mrs. Martin be absent?"

"It is uncertain. When shall I give the medicine again?"

"I shall remain until she comes home."

Beulah was pacing up and down the floor, with Johnny in her arms; Dr. Hartwell stood on the hearth, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, and watching the slight form as it stole softly to and fro. Gradually the child became quiet, but his nurse kept up her walk. Dr. Hartwell said abruptly:

"Sit down, girl! you will walk yourself into a shadow."

She lifted her head, shook it in reply, and resumed her measured tread.

"What is your name?"

"Beulah Benton."

"Beulah!" repeated the doctor, while a smile flitted over his mustached lip. She observed it, and exclaimed, with bitter emphasis:

"You need not tell me it is unsuitable; I know it; I feel it. Beulah! Beulah! Oh, my father! I have neither sunshine nor flowers, nor hear the singing of birds, nor the voice of the turtle. You ought to have called me Marah."

"You have read the 'Pilgrim's Progress' then?" said he, with a searching glance.

Either she did not hear him, or was too entirely engrossed by painful reflection to frame an answer. The despairing expression settled upon her face, and the broken threads of memory wove on again.

"Beulah, how came you here in the capacity of nurse?"

"I was driven here by necessity."

"Where are your parents and friends?"

"I have none. I am alone in the world."

"How long have you been so dependent?"

She raised her hand deprecatingly, nay commandingly, as though she had said:

"No more. You have not the right to question, nor I the will to answer."

He marked the look of unconquerable grief, and, understanding her gesture, made no more inquiries.

Soon after, Mrs. Martin returned, and, having briefly stated what had occurred, and given directions for the child's treatment, he withdrew. His low "good-night," gently spoken to the nurse, was only acknowledged by a slight inclination of the head as he passed her. Little Johnny was restless, and constantly threatened with a return of the convulsions. His mother held him on her knee, and telling Beulah she "had been a good, sensible girl to bathe him so promptly," gave her permission to retire.

"I am not at all sleepy, and would rather stay here and nurse him.
He does not moan so much when I walk with him. Give him back to me."

"But you will be tired out."

"I shall not mind it." Stooping down, she lifted the restless boy, and, wrapping his cloak about him, commenced the same noiseless tread. Thus the night waned; occasionally Mrs. Martin rose and felt her babe's pulse, and assisted in giving the hourly potions, then reseated herself, and allowed the hireling to walk on. Once she offered to relieve her, but the arms refused to yield their burden. A little after four the mother slept soundly in her chair. Gradually the stars grew dim, and the long, undulating chain of clouds that girded the eastern horizon kindled into a pale orange that transformed them into mountains of topaz. Pausing by the window, and gazing vacantly out, Beulah's eyes were suddenly riveted on the gorgeous pageant, which untiring nature daily renews, and she stood watching the masses of vapor painted by coming sunlight, and floating slowly before the wind, until the "King of Day" flashed up and dazzled her. Mrs. Martin was awakened by the entrance of a servant, and starting up, exclaimed:

"Bless me! I have been asleep. Beulah, how is Johnny? You must be tired to death."

"He is sleeping now very quietly; I think he is better; his fever is not so high. I will take care of him, and you had better take another nap before breakfast."

Mrs. Martin obeyed the nurse's injunction, and it was two hours later when she took her child and directed Beulah to get her breakfast. But the weary girl felt no desire for the meal, and, retiring to her attic room, bathed her eyes and replaited her hair. Kneeling beside her bed, she tried to pray, but the words died on her lips; and, too miserable to frame a petition, she returned to the chamber where, in sad vigils, she had spent the night. Dr. Hartwell bowed as she entered, but the head was bent down, and, without glancing at him, she took the fretful, suffering child and walked to the window. While she stood there her eyes fell upon the loved face of her best friend. Eugene Graham was crossing the street. For an instant the burning blood surged over her wan, sickly cheeks, and the pale lips parted in a smile of delight, as she leaned forward to see whether he was coming in. The door bell rang, and she sprang from the window, unconscious of the piercing eyes fastened upon her. Hastily laying little Johnny on his mother's lap, she merely said, "I will be back soon," and, darting down the steps, met Eugene at the entrance, throwing her arms around his neck and hiding her face on his shoulder.

"What is the matter, Beulah? Do tell me," said he anxiously.

Briefly she related her fruitless attempt to see Lilly, and pointed out the nature of the barrier which must forever separate them. Eugene listened with flashing eyes, and several times the word "brutal" escaped his lips. He endeavored to comfort her by holding out hopes of brighter days, but her eyes were fixed on shadows, and his cheering words failed to call up a smile. They stood in the hall near the front door, and here Dr. Hartwell found them when he left the sickroom. Eugene looked up as he approached them, and stepped forward with a smile of recognition to shake the extended hand. Beulah's countenance became instantly repellent, and she was turning away when the doctor addressed her:

"You must feel very much fatigued from being up all night. I know from your looks that you did not close your eyes."

"I am no worse looking than usual, thank you," she replied icily, drawing back as she spoke, behind Eugene. The doctor left them, and, as his buggy rolled from the door, Beulah seemed to breathe freely again. Poor child; her sensitive nature had so often been deeply wounded by the thoughtless remarks of strangers, that she began to shrink from all observation, as the surest mode of escaping pain. Eugene noticed her manner, and, biting his lips with vexation, said reprovingly:

"Beulah, you were very rude to Dr. Hartwell. Politeness costs nothing, and you might at least have answered his question with ordinary civility."

Her eyelids drooped, and a tremor passed over her mouth, as she answered meekly:

"I did not intend to be rude; but I dread to have people look at or speak to me."

"Why, pray?"

"Because I am so ugly, and they are sure to show me that they see it."

He drew his arm protectingly around her, and said gently: "Poor child; it is cruel to make you suffer so. But rest assured Dr. Hartwell will never wound your feelings. I have heard that he was a very stern and eccentric man, though a remarkably learned one, yet I confess there is something in his manner which fascinates me, and if you will only be like yourself he will always speak kindly to you. But I am staying too long. Don't look so forlorn and ghostly. Positively I hate to come to see you, for somehow your wretched face haunts me. Here is a book I have just finished; perhaps it will serve to divert your mind." He put a copy of Irving's "Sketch Book" in her hand, and drew on his gloves.

"Oh, Eugene, can't you stay a little longer—just a little longer? It seems such a great while since you were here." She looked up wistfully into the handsome, boyish face.

Drawing out an elegant new watch, he held it before her eyes, and answered hurriedly:

"See there; it is ten o'clock, and I am behind my appointment at the lecture room. Good-by; try to be cheerful. 'What can't be cured must be endured,' you know, so do not despond, dear Beulah." Shaking her hand cordially, he ran down the steps. The orphan pressed her hands tightly over her brow, as if to stay some sudden, painful thought, and slowly remounted the stairs.