That year of study rolled swiftly away; another winter came and passed; another spring hung its verdant drapery over earth, and now ardent summer reigned once more. It was near the noon of a starry July night that Beulah sat in her own room beside her writing-desk. A manuscript lay before her, yet damp with ink, and as she traced the concluding words, and threw down her pen, a triumphant smile flashed over her face. To-morrow the session of the public school would close, with an examination of its pupils; to-morrow she would graduate, and deliver the valedictory to the graduating class. She had just finished copying her address, and, placing it carefully in the desk, rose and leaned against the window, that the cool night air might fan her fevered brow. The hot blood beat heavily in her temples, and fled with arrowy swiftness through her veins. Continued mental excitement, like another Shylock, peremptorily exacted its debt, and, as she looked out on the solemn beauty of the night, instead of soothing, it seemed to mock her restlessness. Dr. Hartwell had been absent since noon, but now she detected the whir of wheels in the direction of the carriage house, and knew that he was in the study. She heard him throw open the shutters and speak to Charon, and, gathering up her hair, which hung loosely about her shoulders, she confined it with a comb and glided noiselessly down the steps. The lamplight gleamed through the open door, and, pausing on the threshold, she asked:

"May I come in for a few minutes, or are you too much fatigued to talk?"

"Beulah, I positively forbade your sitting up this late. It is midnight, child; go to bed." He held some papers, and spoke without even glancing toward her.

"Yes, I know; but I want to ask you something before I sleep."

"Well, what is it?" Still he did not look up from his papers.

"Will you attend the exercises to-morrow?"

"Is it a matter of any consequence whether I do or not?"

"To me, sir, it certainly is."

"Child, I shall not have leisure."

"Be honest, and say that you have not sufficient interest!" cried she passionately.

He smiled, and answered placidly:

"Good-night, Beulah. You should have been asleep long ago." Her lips quivered, and she lingered, loath to leave him in so unfriendly a mood. Suddenly he raised his head, looked at her steadily, and said:

"Have you sent in your name as an applicant for a situation?"

"I have."

"Good-night." His tone was stern, and she immediately retreated. Unable to sleep, she passed the remaining hours of the short night in pacing the floor, or watching the clockwork of stars point to the coming dawn. Though not quite eighteen, her face was prematurely grave and thoughtful, and its restless, unsatisfied expression plainly discovered a perturbed state of mind and heart. The time had come when she must go out into the world and depend only upon herself; and though she was anxious to commence the work she had assigned herself, she shrank from the thought of quitting her guardian's home and thus losing the only companionship she really prized. He had not sought to dissuade her; had appeared perfectly indifferent to her plans; and this unconcern had wounded her deeply. To-morrow would decide her election as teacher, and, as the committee would be present at her examination (which was to be more than usually minute in view of her application), she looked forward impatiently to this occasion. Morning dawned, and she hailed it gladly; breakfast came, and she took hers alone; the doctor had already gone out for the day. This was not an unusual occurrence, yet this morning she noted it particularly. At ten o'clock the academy was crowded with visitors, and the commissioners and teachers were formidably arrayed on the platform raised for this purpose. The examination began; Greek and Latin classes were carefully questioned, and called on to parse and scan to a tiresome extent; then came mathematical demonstrations. Every conceivable variety of lines and angles adorned the blackboards; and next in succession were classes in rhetoric and natural history. There was a tediousness in the examinations incident to such occasions, and, as repeated inquiries were propounded, Beulah rejoiced at the prospect of release. Finally the commissioners declared themselves quite satisfied with the proficiency attained, and the graduating class read the compositions for the day. At length, at a signal from the superintendent of the department, Beulah ascended the platform, and, surrounded by men signalized by scholarship and venerable from age, she began her address. She wore a white mull muslin, and her glossy black hair was arranged with the severe simplicity which characterized her style of dress. Her face was well-nigh as colorless as the paper she held, and her voice faltered with the first few sentences.

The theme was "Female Heroism," and as she sought among the dusky annals of the past for instances in confirmation of her predicate, that female intellect was capable of the most exalted attainments, and that the elements of her character would enable woman to cope successfully with difficulties of every class, her voice grew clear, firm, and deep. Quitting the fertile fields of history, she painted the trials which hedge woman's path, and with unerring skill defined her peculiar sphere, her true position. The reasoning was singularly forcible, the imagery glowing and gorgeous, and occasional passages of exquisite pathos drew tears from her fascinated audience; while more than once a beautiful burst of enthusiasm was received with flattering applause. Instead of flushing, her face grew paler, and the large eyes were full of lambent light, which seemed to flash out from her soul. In conclusion, she bade adieu to the honored halls where her feet had sought the paths of knowledge; paid a just and grateful tribute to the Institution of Public Schools, and to the Commissioners through whose agency she had been enabled to enjoy so many privileges; and, turning to her fellow-graduates, touchingly reminded them of the happy past and warned of the shrouded future. Crumpling the paper in one hand, she extended the other toward her companions, and in thrilling accents conjured them, in any and every emergency, to prove themselves true women of America—ornaments of the social circle, angel guardians of the sacred hearthstone, ministering spirits where suffering and want demanded succor; women qualified to assist in a council of statesmen, if dire necessity ever required it; while, in whatever positions they might be placed, their examples should remain imperishable monuments of true female heroism. As the last words passed her lips she glanced swiftly over the sea of heads, and perceived her guardian leaning with folded arms against a pillar, while his luminous eyes were fastened on her face. A flash of joy irradiated her countenance, and, bending her head amid the applause of the assembly, she retired to her seat. She felt that her triumph was complete; the whispered, yet audible, inquiries regarding her name, the admiring, curious glances directed toward her, were not necessary to assure her of success; and when, immediately after the diplomas were distributed, she rose and received hers with the calm look of one who has toiled long for some need, and puts forth her hand for what she is conscious of having deserved. The crowd slowly dispersed, and, beckoned forward once more, Beulah confronted the august committee whose prerogative it was to elect teachers. A certificate was handed her, and the chairman informed her of her election to a vacant post in the Intermediate Department. The salary was six hundred dollars, to be paid monthly, and her duties would commence with the opening of the next session, after two months' vacation. In addition he congratulated her warmly on the success of her valedictory effort, and suggested the propriety of cultivating talents which might achieve for her an enviable distinction. She bowed in silence, and turned away to collect her books. Her guardian approached, and said in a low voice:

"Put on your bonnet and come down to the side gate. It is too warm for you to walk home."

Without waiting for her answer, he descended the steps, and she was soon seated beside him in the buggy. The short ride was silent, and, on reaching home, Beulah would have gone, immediately to her room, but the doctor called her into the study and, as he rang the bell, said gently:

"You look very much exhausted; rest here, while I order a glass of wine."

It was speedily brought, and, having iced it, he held it to her white lips. She drank the contents, and her head sank on the sofa cushions. The fever of excitement was over, a feeling of lassitude stole over her, and she soon lost all consciousness in a heavy sleep. The sun was just setting as she awakened from her slumber, and, sitting up, she soon recalled the events of the day. The evening breeze, laden with perfume, stole in refreshingly through the blinds, and, as the sunset pageant faded, and darkness crept on, she remained on the sofa, pondering her future course. The lamp and her guardian made their appearance at the same moment, and, throwing himself down in one corner of the sofa, the latter asked: "How are you since your nap? A trifle less ghastly, I see."

"Much better, thank you, sir. My head is quite clear again."

"Clear enough to make out a foreign letter?" He took one from his pocket and put it in her hand.

An anxious look flitted across her face, and she glanced rapidly over the contents, then crumpled the sheet nervously in her fingers.

"What is the matter now?"

"He is coming home. They will all be here in November." She spoke as if bitterly chagrined and disappointed.

"Most people would consider that joyful news," said the doctor quietly.

"What! after spending more than five years (one of them in traveling), to come back without having acquired a profession and settle down into a mere walking ledger! To have princely advantages at his command, and yet throw them madly to the winds and be content to plod along the road of mercantile life, without one spark of ambition, when his mental endowments would justify his aspiring to the most exalted political stations in the land."

Her voice trembled from intensity of feeling.

"Take care how you disparage mercantile pursuits; some of the most masterly minds of the age were nurtured in the midst of ledgers."

"And I honor and reverence all such far more than their colleagues whose wisdom was culled in classic academic halls; for the former, struggling amid adverse circumstances, made good their claim to an exalted place in the temple of Fame. But necessity forced them to purely mercantile pursuits. Eugene's case is by no means analogous; situated as he is, he could be just what he chose. I honor all men who do their duty nobly and truly in the positions fate has assigned them; but, sir, you know there are some more richly endowed than others, some whom nature seems to have destined for arduous diplomatic posts; whose privilege it is to guide the helm of state and achieve distinction as men of genius. To such the call will be imperative; America needs such men. Heaven only knows where they are to rise from, when the call is made! I do not mean to disparage mercantile pursuits; they afford constant opportunities for the exercise and display of keenness and clearness of intellect, but do not require the peculiar gifts so essential in statesmen. Indolence is unpardonable in any avocation, and I would be commended to the industrious, energetic merchant, in preference to superficial, so- called, 'professional men.' But Eugene had rare educational advantages, and I expected him to improve them, and be something more than ordinary. He expected it, five years ago. What infatuation possesses him latterly I cannot imagine."

Dr. Hartwell smiled, and said very quietly: "Has it ever occurred to you that you might have overestimated Eugene's abilities?"

"Sir, you entertained a flattering opinion of them when he left here." She could animadvert upon his fickleness, but did not choose that others should enjoy the same privilege.

"I by no means considered him an embryo Webster or Calhoun; never looked on him as an intellectual prodigy. He had a good mind, a handsome face, and frank, gentlemanly manners which, in the aggregate, impressed me favorably." Beulah bit her lips, and stooped to pat Charon's head. There was silence for some moments, and then the doctor asked:

"Does he mention Cornelia's health?"

"Only once, incidentally. I judge from the sentence that she is rather feeble. There is a good deal of unimportant chat about a lady they have met in Florence. She is the daughter of a Louisiana planter; very beautiful and fascinating; is a niece of Mrs. Graham's, and will spend part of next winter with the Grahams."

"What is her name?"

"Antoinette Dupres."

Beulah was still caressing Charon, and did not observe the purplish glow which bathed the doctor's face at the mention of the name. She only saw that he rose abruptly, and walked to the window, where he stood until tea was brought in. As they concluded the meal and left the table he held out his hand.

"Beulah, I congratulate you on your signal success to-day. Your valedictory made me proud of my protegee." She had put her hand in his, and looked up in his face, but the cloudy splendor of the eyes was more than she could bear, and drooping her head a little, she answered:

"Thank you."

"You have vacation for two months?"

"Yes, sir; and then my duties commence. Here is the certificate of my election." She offered it for inspection; but, without noticing it, he continued:

"Beulah, I think you owe me something for taking care of you, as you phrased it long ago at the asylum. Do you admit the debt?"

"Most gratefully, sir! I admit that I can never liquidate it: I can repay you only with the most earnest gratitude." Large tears hung upon her lashes, and, with an uncontrollable impulse, she raised his hand to her lips.

"I am about to test the sincerity of your gratitude, I doubt it."

She trembled, and looked at Mm uneasily. He laid his hand on her shoulder, and said slowly:

"Relinquish the idea of teaching. Let me present you to society as my adopted child. Thus you can requite the debt."

"I cannot! I cannot!" cried Beulah firmly, though tears gushed over her cheeks.

"Cannot? cannot?" repeated the doctor, pressing heavily upon her shoulders.

"Will not, then!" said she proudly.

They looked at each other steadily. A withering smile of scorn and bitterness distorted his Apollo-like features, and he pushed her from him, saying, in the deep, concentrated tone of intense disappointment:

"I might have known it. I might have expected it; for Fate has always decreed me just such returns."

Leaning against the sculptured Niobe, which stood near, Beulah exclaimed, in a voice of great anguish:

"Oh, Dr. Hartwell! do not make me repent the day I entered this house. God knows I am grateful, very grateful, for your unparalleled kindness. Oh, that it were in my power to prove to you my gratitude! Do not upbraid me. You knew that I came here only to be educated. Even then I could not bear the thought of always imposing on your generosity; and every day that passed strengthened this impatience of dependence. Through your kindness it is now in my power to maintain myself, and, after the opening of next session, I cannot remain any longer the recipient of your bounty. Oh, sir, do not charge me with ingratitude! It is more than I can bear; more than I can bear!"

"Mark me, Beulah! Your pride will wreck you; wreck your happiness, your peace of mind. Already its iron hand is crushing your young heart. Beware lest, in yielding to its decrees, you become the hopeless being a similar course has rendered me. Beware! But why should I warn you? Have not my prophecies ever proved Cassandran? Leave me."

"No, I will not leave you in anger." She drew near him and took his hand in both hers. The fingers were cold and white as marble, rigid and inflexible as steel.

"My guardian, would you have me take a step (through fear of your displeasure) which would render my life a burden? Will you urge me to remain, when I tell you that I cannot be happy here? I think not."

"Urge you to remain? By the Furies—no! I urge you to go! Yes—go! I no longer want you here. Your presence would irritate me beyond measure. But listen to me. I am going to New York on business; had intended taking you with me; but, since you are so stubbornly proud, I can consent to leave you. I shall start to-morrow evening—rather earlier than I expected—and shall not return before September, perhaps even later. What your plans are I shall not inquire; but it is my request that you remain in this house, under Mrs. Watson's care, until your school duties commence; then you will, I suppose, remove elsewhere. I also request, particularly, that you will not hesitate to use the contents of a purse which I shall leave on my desk for you. Remember that in coming years, when trials assail you, if you need a friend, I will still assist you. You will leave me now, if you please, as I have some letters to write." He motioned her away, and, unable to frame any reply, she left the room.

Though utterly miserable, now that her guardian seemed so completely estranged, her proud nature rebelled at his stern dismissal, and a feeling of reckless defiance speedily dried the tears on her cheek. That he should look down upon her with scornful indifference stung her almost to desperation, and she resolved, instead of weeping, to meet and part with him as coldly as his contemptuous treatment justified. Weary in mind and body she fell asleep, and soon forgot all her plans and sorrows. The sun was high in the heavens when Harriet waked her, and, starting up, she asked:

"What time is it? How came I to sleep so late?"

"It is eight o'clock. Master ate breakfast an hour ago. Look here, child; what is to pay? Master is going off to the North, to be gone till October. He sat up all night, writing and giving orders about things on the place, 'specially the greenhouse and the flower seeds to be saved in the front yard. He has not been in such a way since seven years ago. What is in the wind now? What ails him?" Harriet sat with her elbows on her knees, and her wrinkled face resting in the palms of her hands. She looked puzzled and discontented.

"He told me last night that he expected to leave home this evening; that he was going to New York on business." Beulah affected indifference; but the searching eyes of the old woman were fixed on her, and, as she turned away, Harriet exclaimed:

"Going this evening! Why, child, he has gone. Told us all good-by, from Mrs. Watson down to Charon. Said his trunk must be sent down to the wharf at three o'clock; that he would not have time to come home again. There, good gracious! you are as white as a sheet; I will fetch you some wine." She hurried out, and Beulah sank into a chair, stunned by the intelligence.

When Harriet proffered a glass of cordial she declined it, and said composedly:

"I will come, after a while, and take my breakfast. There is no accounting for your master's movements. I would as soon engage to keep up with a comet. There, let go my dress; I am going into the study for a while." She went slowly down the steps and, locking the door of the study to prevent intrusion, looked around the room. There was an air of confusion, as though books and chairs had been hastily moved about. On the floor lay numerous shreds of crape, and, glancing up, she saw, with surprise, that the portrait had been closely wrapped in a sheet and suspended with the face to the wall. Instantly an uncontrollable desire seized her to look at that face. She had always supposed it to be his wife's likeness, and longed to gaze upon the features of one whose name her husband had never mentioned. The mantel was low, and, standing on a chair, she endeavored to catch the cord which supported the frame; but it hung too high. She stood on the marble mantel, and stretched her hands eagerly up; but though her fingers touched the cord she could not disengage it from the hook, and, with a sensation of keen disappointment, she was forced to abandon the attempt. A note on the desk attracted her attention. It was directed to her, and contained only a few words:

"Accompanying this is a purse containing a hundred dollars. In any emergency which the future may present, do not hesitate to call on YOUR GUARDIAN."

She laid her head down on his desk and sobbed bitterly. For the first time she realized that he had indeed gone—gone without one word of adieu, one look of kindness or reconciliation. Her tortured heart whispered: "Write him a note; ask him to come home; tell him you will not leave his house." But pride answered: "He is a tyrant; don't be grieved at his indifference; he is nothing to you; go to work boldly and repay the money you have cost him." Once more, as in former years, a feeling of desolation crept over her. She had rejected her guardian's request, and isolated herself from sympathy; for who would assist and sympathize with her mental difficulties as he had done? The tears froze in her eyes, and she sat for some time looking at the crumpled note. Gradually an expression of proud defiance settled on her features; she took the purse, walked up to her room, and put on her bonnet and mantle. Descending to the breakfast room, she drank a cup of coffee, and, telling Mrs. Watson she would be absent an hour or two, left the house and proceeded to Madam St. Cymon's. She asked to see Miss Sanders, and, after waiting a few minutes in the parlor, Clara made her appearance. She looked wan and weary, but greeted her friend with a gentle smile.

"I heard of your triumph yesterday, Beulah, and most sincerely congratulate you."

"I am in no mood for congratulations just now. Clara, did not you tell me, a few days since, that the music teacher of this establishment was ill and that Madam St. Cymon was anxious to procure another?"

"Yes; I have no idea she will ever be well again. If strong enough she is going back to her family in Philadelphia next week. Why do you ask?"

"I want to get the situation, and wish you would say to madam that I have called to see her about it. I will wait here till you speak to her."

"Beulah, are you mad? Dr. Hartwell never will consent to your teaching music!" cried Clara, with astonishment written on every feature.

"Dr. Hartwell is not my master, Clara Sanders! Will you speak to madam, or shall I have to do it?"

"Certainly, I will speak to her. But oh, Beulah! are you wild enough to leave your present home for such a life?"

"I have been elected a teacher in the public schools but shall have nothing to do until the first of October. In the meantime I intend to give music lessons. If madam will employ me for two months she may be able to procure a professor by the opening of the next term. And, further, if I can make this arrangement I am coming immediately to board with Mrs. Hoyt. Now speak to madam for me, will you?"

"One moment more. Does the doctor know of all this?"

"He knows that I intend to teach in the public school. He goes to
New York this afternoon."

Clara looked at her mournfully, and said, with sad emphasis:

"Oh, Beulah! you may live to rue your rashness."

To Madam St. Cymon the proposal was singularly opportune, and, hastening to meet the applicant, she expressed much pleasure at seeing Miss Benton again. She was very anxious to procure a teacher for the young ladies boarding with her, and for her own daughters, and the limited engagement would suit very well. She desired, however, to hear Miss Benton perform. Beulah took off her gloves and played several very difficult pieces with the ease which only constant practice and skillful training can confer. Madam declared herself more than satisfied with her proficiency, and requested her to commence her instructions on the following day. She had given the former teacher six hundred dollars a year, and would allow Miss Benton eighty dollars for the two months. Beulah was agreeably surprised at the ample remuneration, and, having arranged the hours of her attendance at the school, she took leave of the principal. Clara called to her as she reached the street; and, assuming a gayety which, just then, was very foreign to her real feelings, Beulah answered:

"It is all arranged. I shall take tea with you in my new home, provided Mrs. Hoyt can give me a room." She kissed her hand and hurried away. Mrs. Hoyt found no difficulty in providing a room; and, to Beulah's great joy, managed to have a vacant one adjoining Clara's. She was a gentle, warmhearted woman; and as Beulah examined the apartment and inquired the terms, she hesitated, and said:

"My terms are thirty dollars a month; but you are poor, I judge, and being Miss Clara's friend I will only charge you twenty-five."

"I do not wish you to make any deduction in my favor. I will take the room at thirty dollars," answered Beulah rather haughtily.

"Very well. When will you want it?"

"Immediately. Be kind enough to have it in readiness for me. I shall come this afternoon. Could you give me some window curtains? I should like it better, if you could do so without much inconvenience."

"Oh, certainly! they were taken down yesterday to be washed.
Everything shall be in order for you."

It was too warm to walk home again, and Beulah called a carriage. The driver had not proceeded far when a press of vehicles forced him to pause a few minutes. They happened to stand near the post office, and, as Beulah glanced at the eager crowd collected in front, she started violently on perceiving her guardian. He stood on the corner, talking to a gentleman of venerable aspect, and she saw that he looked harassed. She was powerfully impelled to beckon him to her, and at least obtain a friendly adieu; but again pride prevailed. He had deliberately left her, without saying good-by, and she would not force herself on his notice. Even as she dropped her veil to avoid observation the carriage rolled on, and she was soon at Dr. Hartwell's door. Unwilling to reflect on the steps she had taken, she busied herself in packing her clothes and books. On every side were tokens of her guardian's constant interest and remembrance—pictures, vases, and all the elegant appendages of a writing-desk. At length the last book was stowed avay and nothing else remained to engage her. The beautiful little Nuremberg clock on the mantel struck two, and, looking up, she saw the solemn face of Harriet, who was standing in the door. Her steady, wondering gaze disconcerted Beulah, despite her assumed indifference.

"What is the meaning of all this commotion? Hal says you ordered the carriage to be ready at five o'clock to take you away from here. Oh, child! what are things coming to? What will master say? What won't he say? What are you quitting this house for, where you have been treated as well as if it belonged to you? What ails you?"

"Nothing. I have always intended to leave here as soon as I was able to support myself. I can do so now, very easily, and am going to board. Your master knows I intend to teach."

"But he has no idea that you are going to leave here before he comes home, for he gave us all express orders to see that you had just what you wanted. Oh, he will be in a tearing rage when he hears of it! Don't anger him, child! Do, pray, for mercy's sake, don't anger him! He never forgets anything! When he once sets his head he is worse than David or the Philistines! If he is willing to support you it is his own lookout. He is able, and his money is his own. His kin won't get it. He and his brother don't speak; and as for Miss May! they never did get along in peace, even before he was married. So, if he chooses to give some of his fortune to you, it is nobody's business but his own; and you are mighty simple, I can tell you, if you don't stay here and take it."

"That will do, Harriet. I do not wish any more advice. I don't want your master's fortune, even if I had the offer of it! I am determined to make my own living; so just say no more about it."

"Take care, child. Remember, 'Pride goeth before a fall'!"

"What do you mean?" cried Beulah angrily.

"I mean that the day is coming when you will be glad enough to come back and let my master take care of you! That's what I mean. And see if it doesn't come to pass. But he will not do it then; I tell you now he won't. There is no forgiving spirit about him; he is as fierce, and bears malice as long, as a Comanche Injun! It is no business of mine though. I have said my say; and I will be bound you will go your own gait. You are just about as hard-headed as he is himself. Anybody would almost believe you belonged to the Hartwell family. Every soul of them is alike in the matter of temper; only Miss Pauline has something of her pa's disposition. I suppose, now her ma is married again, she will want to come back to her uncle; should not wonder if he 'dopted her, since you have got the bit between your teeth."

"I hope he will," answered Beulah. She ill brooked Harriet's plain speech, but remembrances of past affection checked the severe rebuke which more than once rose to her lips.

"We shall see; we shall see!" And Harriet walked off with anything but a placid expression of countenance, while Beulah sought Mrs. Watson to explain her sudden departure and acquaint her with her plans for the summer. The housekeeper endeavored most earnestly to dissuade her from taking the contemplated step, assuring her that the doctor would be grieved and displeased; but her arguments produced no effect, and, with tears of regret, she bade her farewell.

The sun was setting when Beulah took possession of her room at Mrs. Hoyt's house. The furniture was very plain, and the want of several articles vividly recalled the luxurious home she had abandoned. She unpacked and arranged her clothes, and piled her books on a small table, which was the only substitute for her beautiful desk and elegant rosewood bookcase. She had gathered a superb bouquet of flowers as she crossed the front yard, and, in lieu of her Sevres vases, placed them in a dim-looking tumbler which stood on the tall, narrow mantelpiece. Her room was in the third story, with two windows, one opening to the south and one to the west. It grew dark by the time she had arranged the furniture, and, too weary to think of going down to tea, she unbound her hair and took a seat beside the window. The prospect was extended; below her were countless lamps, marking the principal streets; and, in the distance, the dark cloud of masts told that river and bay might be distinctly seen by daylight. The quiet stars looked dim through the dusty atmosphere, and the noise of numerous vehicles rattling by produced a confused impression, such as she had never before received at this usually calm twilight season. The events of the day passed in a swift review, and a mighty barrier seemed to have sprung up (as by some foul spell) between her guardian and herself. What an immeasurable gulf now yawned to separate them! Could it be possible that the friendly relations of years were thus suddenly and irrevocably annulled? Would he relinquish all interest in one whom he had so long watched over and directed? Did he intend that they should be completely estranged henceforth? For the first time since Lilly's death she felt herself thrown upon the world. Alone and unaided, she was essaying to carve her own fortune from the huge quarries where thousands were diligently laboring. An undefinable feeling of desolation crept into her heart; but she struggled desperately against it, and asked, in proud defiance of her own nature:

"Am I not sufficient unto myself? Leaning only on myself, what more should I want? Nothing! His sympathy is utterly unnecessary."

A knock at the door startled her, and, in answer to her "Come in," Clara Sanders entered. She walked slowly, and, seating herself beside Beulah, said, in a gentle but weary tone:

"How do you like your room? I am so glad it opens into mine."

"Quite as well as I expected. The view from this window must be very fine. There is the tea-bell, I suppose. Are you not going down? I am too much fatigued to move."

"No; I never want supper, and generally spend the evenings in my room. It is drearily monotonous here. Nothing to vary the routine for me, except my afternoon walk, and recently the warm weather has debarred me even from that. You are a great walker, I believe, and I look forward to many pleasant rambles with you when I feel stronger and autumn comes. Beulah, how long does Dr. Hartwell expect to remain at the North? He told me, some time ago, that he was a delegate to the Medical Convention."

"I believe it is rather uncertain; but probably he will not return before October."

"Indeed! That is a long time for a physician to absent himself."

Just then an organ-grinder paused on the pavement beneath the window and began a beautiful air from "Sonnambula." It was a favorite song of Beulah's, and, as the melancholy tones swelled on the night air, they recalled many happy hours spent in the quiet study beside the melodeon. She leaned out of the window till the last echo died away, and, as the musician shouldered his instrument and trudged off, she said abruptly:

"Is there not a piano in the house!"

"Yes; just such a one as you might expect to find in a boarding house, where unruly children are thrumming upon it from morning till night. It was once a fine instrument, but now is only capable of excruciating discords. You will miss your grand piano."

"I must have something in my own room to practice on. Perhaps I can hire a melodeon or piano for a moderate sum. I will try to-morrow."

"The Grahams are coming home soon, I hear. One of the principal upholsterers boards here, and he mentioned this morning at breakfast that he had received a letter from Mr. Graham, directing him to attend to the unpacking of an entirely new set of furniture. Everything will be on a grand scale. I suppose Eugene returns with them?"

"Yes; they will all arrive in November."

"It must be a delightful anticipation for you."

"Why so, pray?"

"Why? Because you and Euguene are such old friends."

"Oh, yes; as far as Eugene is concerned, of course it is a very pleasant anticipation."

"He is identified with the Grahams."

"Not necessarily," answered Beulah coldly.

A sad smile flitted over Clara's sweet face as she rose and kissed her friend's brow, saying gently:

"Good-night, dear. I have a headache, and must try to sleep it off. Since you have determined to battle with difficulties I am very glad to have you here with me. I earnestly hope that success may crown your efforts and the sunshine of happiness dispel for you the shadows that have fallen thick about my pathway. You have been rash, Beulah, and short-sighted; but I trust that all will prove for the best. Good-night."

She glided away, and, locking the door, Beulah returned to her seat and laid her head wearily down on the window-sill. What a Hermes is thought! Like a vanishing dream fled the consciousness of surrounding objects, and she was with Eugene. Now, in the earlier years of his absence, she was in Heidelberg, listening to the evening chimes, and rambling with him through the heart of the Odenwald. Then they explored the Hartz, climbed the Brocken, and there, among the clouds, discussed the adventures of Faust and his kinsman, Manfred. Anon, the arrival of the Grahams disturbed the quiet of Eugene's life, and, far away from the picturesque haunts of Heidelberg students, he wandered with them over Italy, Switzerland, and France. Engrossed by these companions, he no longer found time to commune with her, and when occasionally he penned a short letter it was hurried, constrained, and unsatisfactory. One topic had become stereotyped; he never failed to discourage the idea of teaching; urged most earnestly the folly of such a step, and dwelt upon the numerous advantages of social position arising from a residence under her guardian's roof. We have seen that from the hour of Lilly's departure from the asylum Beulah's affections, hopes, pride, all centered in Eugene. There had long existed a tacit compact which led her to consider her future indissolubly linked with his; and his parting words seemed to seal this compact as holy and binding, when he declared, "I mean, of course, to take care of you myself, when I come home, for you know you belong to me." His letters for many months retained the tone of dictatorship, but the tenderness seemed all to have melted away. He wrote as if with a heart preoccupied by weightier matters, and now Beulah could no longer conceal from herself the painful fact that the man was far different from the boy. After five years' absence he was coming back a man; engrossed by other thoughts and feelings than those which had prompted him in days gone by. With the tenacious hope of youth she still trusted that she might have misjudged him; he could never be other than noble and generous; she would silence her forebodings and wait till his return. She wished beyond all expression to see him once more, and the prospect of a speedy reunion often made her heart throb painfully. That he would reproach her for her obstinate resolution of teaching, she was prepared to expect; but, strong in the consciousness of duty, she committed herself to the care of a merciful God, and soon slept as soundly as though under Dr. Hartwell's roof.