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

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

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

"Has my sister been to the asylum?"

"No, sir."

"Go and arrange Beulah's room."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She shook her head, saying resolutely:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why, pray?"

"Because the tuition is free."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That I might go to the public school."

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

"By whom?" His eyes flashed.

"No matter now, sir."

"By whom? I ask you."

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

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

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

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

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

"Good-evening, Mrs. Chilton."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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