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

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

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

"Down, Charon; you ebon scamp! Down, you keeper of Styx!" He forced down the paws from his shoulders, and patted the shaggy head, while his eyes rested affectionately on the delightful countenance of his sable favorite. As he threw down his gloves, his eyes fell on Beulah, who had hastily risen from the rug, and he held out his hand, saying

"Ah! Charon waked you rudely. How are you?"

"Very well, thank you, sir. I am so glad you have come home, so glad." She took his cold hand between both hers, rubbed it vigorously, and looked up joyfully in his face. She thought he was paler and more haggard than she had ever seen him, his hair clustered in disorder about his forehead, his whole aspect was weary and wretched. He suffered her to keep his hand in her warm, tight clasp, and asked kindly.

"Are you well, Beulah? Your face is flushed, and you feel feverish."

"Perfectly well. But you are as cold as an Esquimaux hunter. Come to the fire." She drew his armchair, with its candle-stand and book- board, close to the hearth, and put his warm velvet slippers before him. She forgot her wounded pride, forgot that he had left without even bidding her good by, and only remembered that he had come home again, that he was sitting there in the study, and she would be lonely no more. Silently leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes with a sigh of relief. She felt as if she would like very much to smooth off the curling hair that lay thick and damp on his white, gleaming brow, but dared not. She stood watching him for a moment, and said considerately.

"Will you have your tea now? Charon and I had our supper long ago."

"No, child, I only want to rest."

Beulah fancied he spoke impatiently. Had she been too officious in welcoming him to his own home? She bit her lip with proud vexation, and, taking her geometry, left him. As she reached the door the doctor called to her.

"Beulah, you need not go away. This is a better fire than the one in your own room." But she was wounded, and did not choose to stay.

"I can study better in my own room. Good-night, sir."

"Why, child, this is Saturday night. No lessons until Monday."

She was not particularly mollified by the reiteration of the word "child," and answered coldly:

"There are hard lessons for every day we live."

"Well, be good enough to hand me the letters that have arrived during my absence."

She emptied the letter receiver, and placed several communications in his hand. He pointed to a chair near the fire, and said quietly:

"Sit down, my child; sit down."

Too proud to discover how much she was piqued by his coldness, she took the seat and commenced studying. But lines and angles swam confusedly before her, and, shutting the book, she sat looking into the fire. While her eyes roamed into the deep, glowing crevices of the coals, a letter was hurled into the fiery mass, and in an instant blazed and shriveled to ashes. She looked up in surprise, and started at the expression of her guardian's face. Its Antinous- like beauty had vanished; the pale lips writhed, displaying the faultless teeth; the thin nostrils were expanded, and the eyes burned with fierce anger. The avalanche was upheaved by hidden volcanic fires, and he exclaimed, with scornful emphasis:

"Idiot! blind lunatic! In his dotage!"

There was something so marvelous in this excited, angry manifestation that Beulah, who had never before seen him other than phlegmatic, looked at him with curious wonder. His clenched hand rested on the arm of the chair, and he continued sarcastically:

"Oh, a precious pair of idiots! They will have a glorious life. Such harmony, such congeniality! Such incomparable sweetness on her part, such equable spirits on his! Not the surpassing repose of a windless tropic night can approach to the divine serenity of their future. Ha! by the Furies! he will have an enviable companion; a matchless Griselda!" Laughing scornfully, he started up and strode across the floor. As Beulah caught the withering expression which sat on every feature she shuddered involuntarily. Could she bear to incur his contempt? He approached her, and she felt as though her very soul shrank from him; his glowing eyes seemed to burn her face, as he paused and said ironically:

"Can't you participate in my joy? I have a new brother-in-law. Congratulate me on my sister's marriage. Such desperate good news can come but rarely in a lifetime."

"Whom has she married, sir?" asked Beulah, shrinking from the iron grasp on her shoulder.

"Percy Lockhart, of course. He will rue his madness. I warned him. Now let him seek apples in the orchards of Sodom! Let him lay his parched lips to the treacherous waves of the Dead Sea! Oh, I pity the fool! I tried to save him, but he would seal his own doom. Let him pay the usurious school-fees of experience."

"Perhaps your sister's love for him will—"

"Oh, you young, ignorant lamb! You poor, little, unfledged birdling! I suppose you fancy she is really attached to him. Do you, indeed? About as much as that pillar of salt in the plain of Sodom was attached to the memory of Lot. About as much as this peerless Niobe of mine is attached to me." He struck the marble statue as he spoke.

"Then, how could she marry him?" asked Beulah naively.

"Ha! ha! I will present you to the Smithsonian Institution as the last embodiment of effete theories. Who exhumed you, patron saint of archaism, from the charnel-house of centuries?" He looked down at her with an expression of intolerable bitterness and scorn. Her habitually pale face flushed to crimson, as she answered with sparkling eyes:

"Not the hand of Diogenes, encumbered with his tub!"

He smiled grimly.

"Know the world as I do, child, and tubs and palaces will be alike to you. Feel the pulse of humanity, and you will—"

"Heaven preserve me from looking on life through your spectacles!" cried she impetuously, stung by the contemptuous smile which curled his lips. "Amen." Taking his hands from her shoulder, he threw himself back into his chair. There was silence for some minutes, and Beulah said:

"I thought Mr. Lockhart was in Syria?"

"Oh, no; he wants a companion in his jaunt to the Holy Land. How devoutly May will kneel on Olivet and Moriah! What pious tears will stain her lovely cheek as she stands in the hall of Pilate, and calls to mind all the thirty years' history! Oh, Percy is cruel to subject her tender soul to such torturing associations! Beulah, go and play something; no matter what. Anything to hush my cursing mood. Go, child." He turned away his face to hide its bitterness, and, seating herself at the melodeon, Beulah played a German air of which he was very fond. At the conclusion he merely said:

"Sing."

A plaintive prelude followed the command, and she sang. No description could do justice to the magnificent voice, as it swelled deep and full in its organ-like tones; now thrillingly low in its wailing melody, and now ringing clear and sweet as silver bells. There were soft, rippling notes that seemed to echo from the deeps of her soul and voice its immensity. It was wonderful what compass there was, what rare sweetness and purity too. It was a natural gift, like that conferred on birds. Art could not produce it, but practice and scientific culture had improved and perfected it. For three years the best teachers had instructed her, and she felt that now she was mistress of a spell which, once invoked, might easily exorcise the evil spirit which had taken possession of her guardian. She sang several of his favorite songs, then closed the melodeon and went back to the fire. Dr. Hartwell's face lay against the purple velvet lining of the chair, and the dark surface gave out the contour with bold distinctness. His eyes were closed, and as Beulah watched him she thought, "How inflexible he looks, how like a marble image! The mouth seems as if the sculptor's chisel had just carved it—so stern, so stony. Ah, he is not scornful now! he looks only sad, uncomplaining, but very miserable. What has steeled his heart, and made him so unrelenting, so haughty? What can have isolated him so completely? Nature lavished on him every gift which could render him the charm of social circles, yet he lives in the seclusion of his own heart, independent of sympathy, contemptuous of the world he was sent to improve and bless." These reflections were interrupted by his opening his eyes and saying, in his ordinary, calm tone:

"Thank you, Beulah. Did you finish that opera I spoke of some time since?"

"Yes, sir."

"You found it difficult?"

"Not so difficult as your description led me to imagine."

"Were you lonely while I was away?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why did not Clara come and stay with you?"

"She was engaged in changing her home; has removed to Mrs. Hoyt's boarding house."

"When did you see her last? How does she bear the blow?"

"I was with her to-day. She is desponding, and seems to grow more so daily."

She wondered very much whether he suspected the preference which she felt sure Clara entertained for him; and, as the subject recurred to her, she looked troubled.

"What is the matter?" he asked, accustomed to reading her expressive face.

"Nothing that can be remedied, sir."

"How do you know that? Suppose you let me be the judge."

"You could not judge of it, sir; and, besides, it is no concern of mine."

A frigid smile fled over his face, and for some time he appeared lost in thought. His companion was thinking too; wondering how Clara could cope with such a nature as his; wondering why people always selected persons totally unsuited to them; and fancying that if Clara only knew her guardian's character as well as she did the gentle girl would shrink in dread from his unbending will, his habitual, moody taciturnity. He was generous and unselfish, but also as unyielding as the Rock of Gibraltar. There was nothing pleasurable in this train of thought, and, taking up a book, she soon ceased to think of the motionless figure opposite. No sooner were her eyes once fastened on her book than his rested searchingly on her face. At first she read without much manifestation of interest, regularly and slowly passing her hand over the black head which Charon had laid on her lap. After a while the lips parted eagerly, the leaves were turned quickly, and the touches on Charon's head ceased. Her long, black lashes could not veil the expression of enthusiastic pleasure. Another page fluttered over, a flush stole across her brow; and, as she closed the volume, her whole face was irradiated.

"What are you reading?" asked Dr. Hartwell, when she seemed to sink into a reverie.

"Analects from Richter."

"De Quincey's!"

"Yes, sir."

"Once that marvelous 'Dream upon the Universe' fascinated me as completely as it now does you."

Memories of earlier days clustered about him, parting the somber clouds with their rosy fingers. His features began to soften.

"Sir, can you read it now without feeling your soul kindle?"

"Yes, child; it has lost its interest for me. I read it as indifferently as I do one of my medical books. So will you one day."

"Never! It shall be a guide-book to my soul, telling of the pathway, arched with galaxies and paved with suns, through which that soul shall pass in triumph to its final rest!"

"And who shall remain in that 'illimitable dungeon of pure, pure darkness, which imprisons creation? That dead sea of nothing, in whose unfathomable zone of blackness the jewel of the glittering universe is set and buried forever?' Child, is not that, too a dwelling-place?" He passed his fingers through his hair, sweeping it all back from his ample forehead. Beulah opened the book, and read aloud:

"Immediately my eyes were opened, and I saw, as it were, an interminable sea of light; all spaces between all heavens were filled with happiest light, for the deserts and wastes of the creation were now filled with the sea of light, and in this sea the suns floated like ash-gray blossoms, and the planets like black grains of seed. Then my heart comprehended that immortality dwelled in the spaces between the worlds, and Death only among the worlds; and the murky planets I perceived were but cradles for the infant spirits of the universe of light! In the Zaarahs of the creation I saw, I heard, I felt—the glittering, the echoing, the breathing of life and creative power!"

She closed the volume, and, while her lips trembled with deep feeling, added earnestly:

"Oh, sir, it makes me long, like Jean Paul, 'for some narrow cell or quiet oratory in this metropolitan cathedral of the universe.' It is an infinite conception and painting of infinity, which my soul endeavors to grasp, but wearies in thinking of!"

Dr. Hartwell smiled, and, pointing to a row of books, said with some eagerness:

"I will test your love of Jean Paul. Give me that large volume in crimson binding on the second shelf. No—further on; that is it."

He turned over the leaves for a few minutes, and, with a finger still on the page, put it into her hand, saying:

"Begin here at 'I went through the worlds,' and read down to 'when I awoke.'"

She sat down and read. He put his hand carelessly over his eyes, and watched her curiously through his fingers. It was evident that she soon became intensely interested. He could see the fierce throbbing of a vein in her throat and the tight clutching of her fingers. Her eyebrows met in the wrinkling forehead, and the lips were compressed severely. Gradually the flush faded from her cheek, an expression of pain and horror swept over her stormy face, and, rising hastily, she exclaimed:

"False! false! 'That everlasting storm which no one guides' tells me in thunder tones that there is a home of rest in the presence of the infinite Father! Oh, chance does not roam, like a destroying angel, through that 'snow-powder of stars!' The love of our God is over all his works as a mantle! Though you should 'take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,' lo! he is there! The sorrowing children of the universe are not orphans! Neither did Richter believe it; well might he declare that with this sketch he would 'terrify himself' and vanquish the specter of Atheism! Oh, sir! the dear God stretches his arm about each and all of us! 'When the sorrow-laden lays himself, with a galled back, into the earth, to sleep till a fairer morning,' it is not true that 'he awakens in a stormy chaos, in an everlasting midnight!' It is not true! He goes home to his loved dead, and spends a blissful eternity in the kingdom of Jehovah, where death is no more, 'where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest!'"

She laid the volume on his knee, and tears which would not be restrained rolled swiftly over her cheeks.

He looked at her mournfully, and took her hand in his.

"My child, do you believe all this as heartily as you did when a little girl? Is your faith in your religion unshaken?"

He felt her fingers close over his spasmodically, as she hastily replied:

"Of course, of course! What could shake a faith which years should strengthen?"

But the shiver which crept through her frame denied her assertion, and with a keen pang he saw the footprints of the Destroyer. She must not know, however, that he doubted her words, and, with an effort, he said:

"I am glad, Beulah; and if you would continue to believe, don't read my books promiscuously. There are many on those shelves yonder which I would advise you never to open. Be warned in time, my child."

She snatched her hand from his, and answered proudly:

"Sir, think you I could be satisfied with a creed which I could not bear to have investigated? If I abstained from reading your books, dreading lest my faith be shaken, then I could no longer confide in that faith. Christianity has triumphed over the subtleties of infidelity for eighteen hundred years. What have I to fear?"

"Beulah, do you want to be just what I am? Without belief in any creed! hopeless of eternity as of life! Do you want to be like me? If not, keep your hands off of my books! Good night; it is time for you to be asleep."

He motioned her away, and, too much pained to reply, she silently withdrew.