The day was dull, misty, and gusty. All the morning there had been a driving southeasterly rain; but toward noon there was a lull. The afternoon was heavy and threatening, while armies of dense clouds drifted before the wind. Dr. Asbury had not yet returned from his round of evening visits; Mrs. Asbury had gone to the asylum to see a sick child, and Georgia was dining with her husband's mother. Beulah came home from school more than usually fatigued; one of the assistant teachers was indisposed, and she had done double work to relieve her. She sat before her desk, writing industriously on an article she had promised to complete before the end of the week. Her head ached; the lines grew dim, and she laid aside her manuscript and leaned her face on her palms. The beautiful lashes lay against her brow, for the eyes were raised to the portrait above her desk, and she gazed up at the faultless features with an expression of sad hopelessness. Years had not filled the void in her heart with other treasures. At this hour it ached with its own desolation, and, extending her arms imploringly toward the picture, she exclaimed sorrowfully:

"O my God, how long must I wait? Oh, how long!"

She opened the desk, and, taking out a key, left her room and slowly ascended to the third story. Charon crept up the steps after her. She unlocked the apartment which Mrs. Asbury had given into her charge some time before, and, raising one of the windows, looped back the heavy blue curtains which gave a somber hue to all within. From this elevated position she could see the stormy, sullen waters of the bay breaking against the wharves, and hear their hoarse muttering as they rocked themselves to rest after the scourging of the tempest. Gray clouds hung low, and scudded northward: everything looked dull and gloomy. She turned from the window and glanced around the room. It was at all times a painful pleasure to come here, and now, particularly, the interior impressed her sadly. Here were the paintings and statues she had long been so familiar with, and here, too, the melodeon which at rare intervals she opened. The house was very quiet; not a sound came up from below; she raised the lid of the instrument, and played a plaintive prelude. Echoes seven or eight years old suddenly fell on her ears; she had not heard one note of this air since she left Dr. Hartwell's roof. It was a favorite song of his; a German hymn he had taught her, and now after seven years she sang it. It was a melancholy air, and, as her trembling voice rolled through the house, she seemed to live the old days over again. But the words died away on her lips; she had overestimated her strength; she could not sing it. The marble images around her, like ghosts of the past, looked mutely down at her grief. She could not weep; her eyes were dry, and there was an intolerable weight on her heart. Just before her stood the Niobe, rigid and woeful; she put her hands over her eyes, and drooped her face on the melodeon. Gloom and despair crouched at her side, their gaunt hands tugging at the anchor of hope. The wind rose and howled round the corners of the house; how fierce it might be on trackless seas, driving lonely barks down to ruin and strewing the main with ghastly upturned faces! She shuddered and groaned. It was a dark hour of trial, and she struggled desperately with the phantoms that clustered about her. Then there came other sounds: Charon's shrill, frantic bark and whine of delight. For years she had not heard that peculiar bark, and started up in wonder. On the threshold stood a tall form, with a straw hat drawn down over the features; but Charon's paws were on the shoulders and his whine of delight ceased not. He fell down at his master's feet and caressed them. Beulah looked an instant, and sprang into the doorway, holding out her arms, with a wild, joyful cry.

"Come at last! Oh, thank God! Come at last!" Her face was radiant, her eyes burned, her glowing lips parted.

Leaning against the door, with his arms crossed over his broad chest, Dr. Hartwell stood, silently regarding her. She came close to him, and her extended arms trembled; still he did not move, did not speak.

"Oh, I knew you would come; and, thank God, now you are here. Come home at last!"

She looked up at him so eagerly; but he said nothing. She stood an instant irresolute, then threw her arms around his neck and laid her head on his bosom, clinging closely to him. He did not return the embrace, but looked down at the beaming face and sighed; then he put his hand softly on her head, and smoothed the rippling hair. A brilliant smile broke over her features, as she felt the remembered touch of his fingers on her forehead, and she repeated in the low tones of deep gladness:

"I knew you would come; oh, sir, I knew you would come back to me!"

"How did you know it, child?" he said, for the first time.

Her heart leaped wildly at the sound of the loved voice she had so longed to hear, and she answered tremblingly:

"Because for weary years I have prayed for your return. Oh, only God knows how fervently I prayed! and he has heard me."

She felt his strong frame quiver; he folded his arms about her, clasped her to his heart with a force that almost suffocated her, and, bending his head, kissed her passionately. Suddenly his arms relaxed their clasp; holding her off, he looked at her keenly, and said:

"Beulah Benton, do you belong to the tyrant Ambition, or do you belong to that tyrant Guy Hartwell? Quick, child; decide!"

"I have decided," said she. Her cheeks burned; her lashes drooped.

"Well?"

"Well, if I am to have a tyrant, I believe I prefer belonging to you?"

He frowned. She smiled and looked up at him.

"Beulah, I don't want a grateful wife. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir."

Just then his eyes rested on the portrait of Creola, which hung opposite. He drew back a step, and she saw the blood leave his lips, as he gazed upon it. Lifting his hand, he said sternly:

"Ah, what pale specters that face calls up from the grim, gray ruins of memory! Doubtless you know my miserable history. I married her, thinking I had won her love. She soon undeceived me. We separated. I once asked you to be my wife, and you told me you would rather die. Child, years have not dealt lightly with me since then. I am no longer a young man. Look here!" He threw off his hat, and, passing his fingers through his curling hair, she saw, here and there, streaks of silver. He watched her as she noted it. She saw, too, how haggard he looked, now that the light fell full on his pale face. The splendid, dark eyes were unaltered, and, as they looked down into hers, tears gathered on her lashes, her lips trembled, and, throwing her arms again round his neck, she laid her face on his shoulder.

"Beulah, do you cling to me because you love me? or because you pity me? or because you are grateful to me for past love and kindness? Answer me, Beulah."

"Because you are my all."

"How long have I been your all?"

"Oh, longer than I knew myself!" was the evasive reply.

He tried to look at her, but she pressed her face close to his shoulder and would not suffer it.

"Beulah!"

"Sir."

"Oh, don't 'sir' me, child! I want to know the truth, and you will not satisfy me."

"I have told you the truth."

"Have you learned that fame is an icy shadow? that gratified ambition cannot make you happy? Do you love me?"

"Yes."

"Better than teaching school and writing learned articles?"

"Rather better, I believe, sir."

"Beulah!"

"Well, sir."

"You have changed in many things since we parted, nearly six years ago!"

"Yes; I thank God, I am changed. My infidelity was a source of many sorrows; but the clouds have passed from my mind; I have found the truth in Holy Writ." Now she raised her head, and looked at him very earnestly.

"Child, does your faith make you happy?"

"Yes; the universe could not purchase it," she answered solemnly.

There was a brief silence. He put both hands on her shoulders, and, stooping down, kissed her brow.

"And you prayed for me, Beulah?"

"Yes; evening and morning. Prayed that you might be shielded from all dangers and brought safely home. And there was one other thing which I prayed for not less fervently than for your return: that God would melt your hard, bitter heart, and give you a knowledge of the truth of the Christian religion. Oh, sir, I thought sometimes that possibly you might die in a far-off land, and then I should see you no more, in time or eternity! and oh, the thought nearly drove me wild! My guardian, my all, let me not have prayed in vain." She clasped his hand in hers, and looked up pleadingly into the loved face; and, for the first time in her life, she saw tears glistening in the burning eyes. He said nothing, however; took her face in his hands, and scanned it earnestly, as if reading all that had passed during his long absence. Presently he asked:

"So you would not marry Lindsay and go to Congress. Why not?"

"Who told you anything about him?"

"No matter. Why did not you marry him?"

"Because I did not love him."

"He is a noble-hearted, generous man."

"Yes, very; I do not know his superior."

"What!"

"I mean what I say," said she firmly.

He smiled, one of his genial, irresistible smiles; and she smiled also, despite herself. "Give me your hand, Beulah?"

She did so very quietly.

"There—is it mine?"

"Yes, sir; if you want it."

"And may I claim it as soon as I choose?"

"Yes, sir."

She had never seen him look as he did then. His face kindled, as if in a broad flash of light; the eyes dazzled her, and she turned her face away, as he drew her once more to his bosom, and exclaimed:

"At last, then, after years of sorrow, and pain, and bitterness, I shall be happy in my own home; shall have a wife, a companion, who loves me for myself alone. Ah, Beulah, my idol; I will make you happy!"

The rain fell heavily, and it grew dark, for the night came rapidly down. There was a furious ringing of the library bell; the doctor had come home, and, as usual, wanted half a dozen things at once.

"Have you seen Dr. Asbury?"

"No. I came directly to the house; saw no one as I entered; and, hearing the melodeon, followed the sound."

"What a joyful surprise it will be to him!" said Beulah, closing the window and locking the melodeon. She led the way down the steps, followed by her guardian and Charon. "Suppose you wait a while in the music room? It adjoins the library, and you can see and hear without being seen." suggested she, with her hand on the bolt of the door. He assented, and stood near the threshold which connected the rooms, while Beulah went into the library. The gas burned brightly, and the doctor sat leaning far back in his armchair, with his feet on an ottoman. His wife stood near him, stroking the gray hair from his furrowed brow.

"Alice, I wish, dear, you would get me an iced lemonade, will you?"

"Let me make it for you," said Beulah, coming forward.

"Not you! At your peril, you touch it. You are overfond of the sour, miss. Alice knows exactly how to suit me."

"So you have turned homeopathist? take acids to—"

"None of your observations, if you please. Just be good enough to open the shutters, will you? It is as hot in this room as if the equator ran between my feet and the wall. Charming weather, eh? And still more charming prospect, that I shall have to go out into it again before bedtime. One of my delectable patients has taken it into his head to treat his wife and children to a rare show, in the shape of a fit of mania-a-potu; and, ten to one, I shall have to play spectator all night." He yawned as he spoke.

"You have an arduous time indeed," began Beulah; but he hastily put in:

"Oh, of all poor devils, we pill-box gentry do have the hardest times! I am sick of patients, sick of physic, sick of the very sound of my own name."

"If my guardian were only here to relieve—"

"Confound your guardian! Don't mention him in my presence. He is a simpleton. He is what the 'Ettrick Shepherd' calls a 'Sumph.' You have no guardian, I can tell you that. Before this he has gone through all the transmigrations of 'Indur,' and the final metempsychosis, gave him to the world a Celestial. Yes, child; a Celestial. I fancy him at this instant, with two long plaits of hair trailing behind him, as, with all the sublime complacency of Celestials, he stalks majestically along, picking tea leaves. Confound your guardian. Mention his name to me again, at the peril of having your board raised."

"George, what is the matter with you?" asked his wife, smiling as she handed him the lemonade he had desired.

"This prating young woman is, as usual, trying to discourse of— Alice, this is just right. Thank you, my dear." He drained the glass and handed it back. Beulah stood so that the light shone full on her face. He looked at her a moment, and exclaimed:

"Come here, child. What ails you? Why, bless my soul, Beulah, what is the matter? I never saw the blood in your face before; and your great, solemn eyes seem to be dancing a jig. What ails you, child?" He grasped her hands eagerly.

"Nothing ails me; I am well—"

"I know better! Has Charon gone mad and bit you? Oho! by all the dead gods of Greece, Guy has come home. Where is he? Where is he?"

He sprang up, nearly knocking his wife down, and looked around the room. Dr. Hartwell emerged from the music room and advanced to meet him.

"Oh, Guy! You heathen! you Philistine! you prodigal!"

He bounded over a chair and locked his arms round the tall form, while his gray head dropped on his friend's shoulder. Beulah stole out quickly, and, in the solitude of her own room, fell on her knees and returned thanks to the God who hears and answers prayer.