It was Christmas Eve—cold, cloudy, and damp. The store windows were gay with every conceivable and inconceivable device for attracting attention. Parents, nurses, and porters hurried along with mysterious looking bundles and important countenances. Crowds of curious, merry children thronged the sidewalks; here a thinly clad, meager boy, looked, with longing eyes and empty pockets, at pyramids of fruit and sweetmeats; and there a richly dressed group chattered like blackbirds, and occasionally fired a pack of crackers, to the infinite dismay of horses and drivers. Little chaps just out of frocks rushed about, with their round, rosy faces hid under grotesque masks; and shouts of laughter, and the squeak of penny trumpets, and mutter of miniature drums swelled to a continuous din, which would have been quite respectable even on the plain of Shinar. The annual jubilee had come, and young and old seemed determined to celebrate it with due zeal. From her window Beulah looked down on the merry groups, and involuntarily contrasted the bustling, crowded streets with the silence and desolation which had reigned over the same thoroughfares only a few months before. One brief year ago childish voices prattled of Santa Claus and gift stockings, and little feet pattered along these same pavements, with tiny hands full of toys. Fond parents, too, had gone eagerly in and out of these gay shops, hunting presents for their darlings. Where were they? children and parents? Ah! a cold, silent band of sleepers in yonder necropolis, where solemn cedars were chanting an everlasting dirge. Death's harvest time was in all seasons; when would her own throbbing pulses be stilled and her questioning tones hushed? Might not the summons be on that very wintry blast which rushed over her hot brow? And if it should be so? Beulah pressed her face closer to the window, and thought it was too inconceivable that she also should die. She knew it was the common birthright, the one unchanging heritage of all humanity; yet long vistas of life opened before her, and though, like a pall, the shadow of the tomb hung over the end, it was very distant, very dim.

"What makes you look so solemn?" asked Clara, who had been busily engaged in dressing a doll for one of Mrs. Hoyt's children.

"Because I feel solemn, I suppose."

Clara came up and, passing her arm round Beulah's shoulder, gazed down into the noisy street. She still wore mourning, and the alabaster fairness of her complexion contrasted vividly with the black bombazine dress. Though thin and pale, there was an indescribable expression of peace on the sweet face; a calm, clear light of contentment in the mild, brown eyes. The holy serenity of the countenance was rendered more apparent by the restless, stormy visage of her companion. Every passing cloud of perplexed thought cast its shadow over Beulah's face, and on this occasion she looked more than usually grave.

"Ah, how merry I used to be on Christmas Eve! Indeed, I can remember having been half wild with excitement. Yet now it all seems like a flitting dream." Clara spoke musingly, yet without sadness.

"Time has laid his wonder-working touch upon you," answered Beulah.

"How is it, Beulah, that you never speak of your childhood?"

"Because it was

"All dark and barren as a rainy sea."

"But you never talk about your parents?"

"I love my father's memory. Ah! it is enshrined in my heart's holiest sanctuary. He was a noble, loving man, and my affection for him bordered on idolatry."

"And your mother?"

"I knew little of her. She died before I was old enough to remember much about her."

Her face was full of bitter recollections; her eyes seemed wandering through some storehouse of sorrows. Clara feared her friend, much as she loved her, and since the partial discovery of her skepticism she had rather shunned her society. Now she watched the heavy brow and deep, piercing eyes uneasily, and, gently withdrawing her arm, she glided out of the room. The tide of life still swelled through the streets, and, forcibly casting the load of painful reminiscences from her, Beulah kept her eyes on the merry faces, and listened to the gay, careless prattle of the excited children. The stately rustle of brocaded silk caused her to look up, and Cornelia Graham greeted her with:

"I have come to take you home with me for the holidays."

"I can't go."

"Why not? You cling to this dark garret of yours as if it possessed all the charms of Vaucluse."

"Diogenes loved his tub, you know," said Beulah quietly.

"An analogous case, truly. But, jesting aside, you must come, Beulah. Eugene expects you; so do my parents; and, above all, I want you. Come." Cornelia laid her hand on the girl's shoulders as she spoke.

"You have been ill again," said Beulah, examining the sallow face.

"Not ill, but I shall be soon, I know. One of my old attacks is coming on; I feel it; and Beulah, to be honest, which I can with you (without casting pearls before swine), that very circumstance makes me want you. I dined out to-day, and have just left the fashionable crowd to come and ask you to spend the holidays with me. The house will be gay. Antoinette intends to have a set of tableaux; but it is probable I shall be confined to my room. Will you give your time to a cross invalid, for such I certainly am? I would be stretched upon St. Lawrence's gridiron before I could be brought to say as much to anybody else. I am not accustomed to ask favors, Beulah; it has been my habit to grant them. Nevertheless, I want you, and am not too proud to come after you. Will you come?"

"Yes, if I may remain with you altogether."

"Thank you. Come, get ready, quick! Give me a fan." Sinking into a chair, she wiped away the cold drops which had collected about her brow.

"Cornelia, I have only one day's leisure. School begins again day after to-morrow."

"Well, well; one day, then. Be quick!"

In a few moments Beulah was ready; and, after informing Clara and Mrs. Hoyt of her intended absence, the two entered Mr. Graham's elegant carriage. The gas was now lighted, and the spirited horses dashed along through streets brilliantly illuminated and thronged with happy people.

"What a Babel! About equal to Constantinople, and its dog- orchestra," muttered Cornelia, as the driver paused to allow one of the military companies to pass. The martial music, together with the hubbub which otherwise prevailed, alarmed the horses, and they plunged violently. The driver endeavored to back out into an alley; but, in the attempt, the carriage was whirled round, the coachman jerked over the dashboard into the gutter, and the frightened animals dashed at furious speed down the main street. Luckily the top was thrown back, making the carriage open, and, springing forward to the post so unceremoniously vacated by the driver, Beulah snatched the reins, which were just within her reach. Curb the rushing horses she did not hope to do; but, by cautious energy, succeeded in turning them sufficiently aside to avoid coming in collision with several other carriages. The street was full of vehicles, and though, as may well be imagined, there was every effort made to give the track, the carriage rushed against the bright yellow wheels of a light buggy in which two young men were trying to manage a fast trotter. There was a terrible smash of wheels, the young gentlemen were suddenly landed in the mud, and their emancipated steed galloped on, with the wreck of the buggy at his heels. Men, women, and children gathered on the corners to witness the denouement. Drays, carts, and wagons were seized with a simultaneous stampede, which soon cleared the middle of the street, and, uninjured by the collision, our carriage flew on. Cornelia sat on the back seat, ghastly pale and motionless, expecting every minute to be hurled out, while Beulah stood up in front, reins in hand, trying to guide the maddened horses. Her bonnet fell off; the motion loosened her comb, and down came her long, heavy hair in black, blinding folds. She shook it all back from her face, and soon saw that this reckless game of dodging vehicles could not last much longer. Straight ahead, at the end of the street, was the wharf, crowded with cotton bales, barrels, and a variety of freight; just beyond was the river. A number of gentlemen stood on a neighboring corner, and with one impulse they rushed forward with extended arms. On sprang the horses almost upon them; eager hands grasped at the bits.

"Stand back-all of you! You might as well catch at the winds!" shouted Beulah, and, with one last effort, she threw, her whole weight on the reins and turned the horses into a cross street. The wheels struck the curbstone, the carriage tilted, rocked, fell back again, and on they went for three squares more, when the horses stopped short before the livery stable where they were kept. Embossed with foam, and panting like stags at bay, they were seized by a dozen hands.

"By all the gods of Greece! you have had a flying trip of it!" cried Dr. Asbury, with one foot on the carriage step and both hands extended, while his gray hair hung in confusion about his face. He had followed them for at least half a dozen blocks, and was pale with anxiety.

"See about Cornelia," said Beulah, seating herself for the first time and twisting up the veil of hair which swept round her form.

"Cornelia has fainted! Halloo, there! some water! quick!" said the doctor, stepping into the carriage and attempting to lift the motionless figure. But Cornelia opened her eyes, and answered unsteadily:

"No! carry me home! Dr. Asbury, take me home!"

The brilliant eyes closed, a sort of spasm distorted her features, and she sank back once more, rigid and seemingly lifeless. Dr. Asbury took the reins firmly in his hands, seated himself, and, speaking gently to the trembling horses, started homeward. They plunged violently at first, but he used the whip unsparingly, and in a few moments they trotted briskly along. Mrs. Graham and her niece had not yet reached home, but Mr. Graham met the carriage at the door, with considerable agitation and alarm in his usually phlegmatic countenance. As Cornelia's colorless face met his view, he threw up his hands, staggered back, and exclaimed:

"My God! is she dead? I knew it would end this way some day!"

"Nonsense, Graham! She is frightened out of her wits—that is all. These Yankee horses of yours have been playing the very deuce. Clear the way there, all of you!"

Lifting Cornelia in his strong arms, Dr. Asbury carried her up to her own room and placed her on a sofa. Having known her from childhood, and treated her so often in similar attacks, he immediately administered some medicine, and ere long had the satisfaction of seeing the rigid aspect leave her face. She sat up, and, without a word, began to take off her kid gloves, which fitted tightly. Suddenly looking up at her father, who was anxiously regarding her, she said abruptly:

"There are no more like her. She kept me from making a simpleton of myself."

"Whom do you mean, my dear?"

"Whom? whom? Why, Beulah Benton, of course! Where is she? Come out of that corner, you quaint, solemn statue!" She held out her hand, and a warm, glad smile broke over her pallid face as Beulah approached her.

"You certainly created a very decided sensation. Beulah made quite a passable Medea, with her inky hair trailing over the back of the seat, and her little hands grasping the reins with desperate energy. By Phoebus! you turned that corner at the bank like an electric bolt. Shake hands, Beulah! After this you will do in any emergency." The doctor looked at her with an expression of paternal pride and affection.

"I feel very grateful to you," began Mr. Graham; but Beulah cut short his acknowledgments by saying hastily:

"Sir, I did nothing at all; Dr. Asbury is resolved to make a heroine of me, that is all. You owe me nothing."

At this moment the coachman limped into the room, with garments dabbled with mud, and inquired anxiously whether the young ladies were hurt.

"No, you son of Pluto; not hurt at all, thanks to your careful driving," answered the doctor, putting his hands in his pockets and eying the discomfited coachman humorously.

"Were you hurt by your fall?" asked Beulah.

"Considerable bumped and thumped, but not much hurt, thank you, miss. I was awfully scared when I rose out of that choking gutter, and saw you standing up, and the horses flying like ole Satan himself was after them. I am marvelous glad nothing was hurt. And now, master, sir, I want you to go to the mayor and have this 'ere firecracker business stopped. A parcel of rascally boys set a match to a whole pack and flung 'em right under Andrew Jackson's feet! Of course I couldn't manage him after that. I 'clare to gracious! it's a sin and a shame the way the boys in this town do carry on Christmas times and, indeed, every other time!" Wilson hobbled out, grumbling audibly.

"Beulah, you must come and spend Christmas at my house. The girls and my wife were talking about it to-day, and concluded to send the carriage for you early in the morning." The doctor drew on his gloves as he spoke.

"They may spare themselves the trouble, sir; she spends it with me," answered Cornelia.

"With you! After such a frolic as you two indulged in this evening, you ought not to be trusted together. If I had not been so anxious about you I could have laughed heartily at the doleful countenances of those two young gents, as they picked themselves up out of the mud. Such rueful plight as their lemon-colored gloves were in! I will send Hartwell to see you to-morrow, Cornelia. A merry Christmas to you all, in spite of your Mazeppa episode." His good-humored countenance vanished.

"There comes Antoinette ejaculating up the steps. Father, tell her I do not want to see her, or anybody else. Don't let her come in here!" cried Cornelia, with a nervous start, as voices were heard in the passage.

Mr. Graham, who felt a certain awe of his willful child, notwithstanding his equable temper, immediately withdrew. His wife hastened into the room, and, with trembling lips touched her daughter's cheek and brow, exclaiming:

"Oh, my child, what a narrow escape! It is horrible to think of— horrible!"

"Not at all, mother, seeing that nothing was hurt in the least. I was sick, any way, as I told you. Don't you see Beulah sitting there?"

Mrs. Graham welcomed her guest cordially.

"You have a great deal of presence of mind, I believe, Miss Beulah?
You are fortunate."

"I thanked my stars that Antoinette was not in the carriage; for most certainly she would have made matters worse, by screaming like an idiot and jumping out. Beulah taught me common sense," answered Cornelia, unclasping a bracelet and tossing a handful of jewelry across the room to her dressing table.

"You underrate yourself, my dear," said her mother, a little proudly.

"Not at all. Humility, genuine or feigned, is not one of our family traits. Mother, will you send up tea for us? We want a quiet time; at least, I do, and Beulah will stay with me."

"But, my love, it is selfish to exclude the balance of the family. Why not come down to the sitting room, where we can all be together?" pleaded the mother.

"Because I prefer staying just where I am. Beulah, put down that window, will you? Mary must think that I have been converted into a Polar bear; and, mother, have some coal brought up. If there is any truth in the metempsychosis of the Orient, I certainly was a palm tree or a rhinoceros in the last stage of my existence." She shivered, and wrapped a heavy shawl up to her very chin.

"May I come in?" asked Eugene, at the door.

"No; go and sing duets with Netta, and amuse yourself downstairs," said she shortly, while a frown darkened her face.

Nevertheless he came in, shook hands with Beulah, and, leaning over the back of Cornelia's chair, asked tenderly:

"How is my sister? I heard on the street that you were injured."

"Oh, I suppose the whole city will be bemoaning my tragic fate. I am not at all hurt, Eugene."

"You have had one of those attacks, though; I see from your face.
Has it passed off entirely?"

"No; and I want to be quiet. Beulah is going to read me to sleep after a while. You may go down now."

"Beulah, you will be with us to-morrow, I suppose?"

"Yes."

"I am sorry I am obliged to dine out; I shall be at home, however, most of the day. I called the other evening, but you were not at home."

"Yes; I was sorry I did not see you," said Beulah, looking steadily at his flushed face and sparkling eyes.

"Dine out, Eugene! For what, I should like to know?" cried Cornelia, raising herself in her chair and fixing her eyes impatiently upon him. "Henderson and Milbank are both here, you know, and I could not refuse to join them in a Christmas dinner."

"Then why did you not invite them to dine at your own house?" Her voice was angry; her glance searching.

"The party was made up before I knew anything about it. They will all be here in the evening."

"I doubt it!" said she sneeringly. The flush deepened on his cheek and he bit his lip; then, turning suddenly to Beulah, he said, as he suffered his eyes to wander over her plain, fawn-colored merino dress:

"You have not yet heard Netta sing, I believe!"

"No."

"Where is she, Cornelia?"

"I have no idea."

"I hope my sister will be well enough to take part in the tableaux to-morrow evening." Taking her beautifully molded hand, he looked at her anxiously. Her piercing, black eyes were riveted on his countenance, as she answered:

"I don't know, Eugene; I have long since abandoned the hope of ever being well again. Perhaps I may be able to get down to the parlors. There is Antoinette in the passage. Good-night." She motioned him away.

He kissed her tenderly, shook hands a second time with Beulah, and left the room. Cornelia bowed her head on her palms; and, though her features were concealed, Beulah thought she moaned, as if in pain.

"Cornelia, are you ill again? What can I do for you?"

The feeble woman lifted her haggard face, and answered:

"What can you do? That remains to be seen. Something must be done.
Beulah, I may die at any hour, and you must save him."

"What do you mean?" Beulah's heart throbbed painfully as she asked this simple question.

"You know very well what I mean! Oh, Beulah! Beulah! it bows my proud spirit into the dust!" Again she averted her head; there was a short silence. Beulah leaned her face on her hand, and then Cornelia continued:

"Did you detect it when he first came home?"

"Yes."

"Oh, it is like a hideous nightmare! I cannot realize that Eugene, so noble, so pure, so refined, could ever have gone to the excesses he has been guilty of. He left home all that he should be; but five years abroad have strangely changed him. My parents will not see it; my mother says 'All young men are wild at first'; and my father shuts his eyes to his altered habits. Eugene constantly drinks too much. I have never seen him intoxicated. I don't know that he has been since he joined us in Italy; but I dread continually lest his miserable associates lead him further astray. I had hoped that, in leaving his companions at the university, he had left temptation too; but the associates he has found here are even worse. I hope I shall be quiet in my grave before I see him drunk. It would kill me, I verily believe, to know that he had so utterly degraded himself."

She shaded her face with her hands, and Beulah replied hastily:

"He surely cannot fall so low! Eugene will never reel home, an unconscious drunkard! Oh, no, it is impossible! impossible! The stars in heaven will fall first!"

"Do you believe what you say?"

"I hope it; and hope engenders faith," answered Beulah.

A bitter smile curled Cornelia's lips, and, sinking back in her chair, she continued:

"Where excessive drinking is not considered a disgrace, young men indulge without a thought of the consequences. Instead of excluding them from genteel circles, their dissipation is smoothed over, or unnoticed; and it has become so prevalent in this city that of all the gentlemen whom I meet in so-called fashionable society, there are very few who abstain from the wine-cup. I have seen them at parties, staggering through a quadrille, or talking the most disgusting nonsense to girls, who have long since ceased to regard dissipation as a stigma upon the names and characters of their friends. I tell you the dissipation of the young men here is sickening to think of. Since I came home I have been constantly reminded of it; and oh, Eugene is following in their disgraceful steps! Beulah, if the wives, and mothers, and sisters did their duty, all this might be remedied. If they carefully and constantly strove to shield their sons and brothers from temptation they might preserve them from the fatal habit, which, once confirmed, it is almost impossible to eradicate. But alas! they smile as sweetly upon the reckless, intoxicated beaux as if they were what men should be. I fancied that I could readily redeem Eugene from his dangerous lapses, but my efforts are rendered useless by the temptations which assail him from every quarter. He shuns me; hourly the barriers between us strengthen. Beulah, I look to you. He loves you, and your influence might prevail, if properly directed. You must save him! You must!"

"I have not the influence you ascribe to me," answered Beulah.

"Do not say so! do not say so! Are you not to be his wife one day?"
She stood up, and heavy drops glistened on her pale forehead.

"His wife! Cornelia Graham, are you mad?" cried Beulah, lifting her head proudly, and eying her companion with unfeigned astonishment, while her eyes burned ominously.

"He told me that he expected to marry you; that it had always been a settled thing. Beulah, you have not broken the engagement—surely you have not?" She grasped Beulah's arm convulsively.

"No positive engagement ever existed. While we were children we often spoke of our future as one, but of late neither of us has alluded to the subject. We are only friends, linked by memories of early years. Nay, since his return, we have almost become strangers."

"Then I have been miserably deceived. Not two months since, he told me that he looked upon you as his future wife. What has alienated you? Beulah Benton, do you not love him?"

"Love him! No!"

"You loved him once—hush! don't deny it! I know that you did. You loved him during his absence, and you must love him still. Beulah, you do love him!"

"I have a true sisterly affection for him; but as for the love which you allude to, I tell you, Cornelia, I have not one particle!"

"Then he is lost!" Sinking back in her chair, Cornelia groaned aloud.

"Why Eugene should have made such an impression on your mind, I cannot conjecture. He has grown perfectly indifferent to me; and even if he had not, we could never be more than friends. Boyish fancies have all passed away. He is a man now—still my friend, I believe; but no longer what he once was to me. Cornelia, I, too, see his growing tendency to dissipation, with a degree of painful apprehension which I do not hesitate to avow. Though cordial enough when we meet, I know and feel that he carefully avoids me. Consequently, I have no opportunity to exert what little influence I may possess. I looked at his flushed face just now, and my thoughts flew back to the golden days of his boyhood, when he was all that a noble, pure, generous nature could make him. I would ten thousand times rather know that he was sleeping by my little sister's side in the graveyard than see him disgrace himself!" Her voice faltered, and she drooped her head to conceal the anguish which convulsed her features.

"Beulah, if he loves you still, you will not reject him?" cried
Cornelia eagerly.

"He does not love me."

"Why will you evade me? Suppose that he does?"

"Then I tell you solemnly, not all Christendom could induce me to marry him!"

"But to save him, Beulah! to save him!" replied Cornelia, clasping her hands entreatingly.

"If a man's innate self-respect will not save him from habitual, disgusting intoxication, all the female influence in the universe would not avail. Man's will, like woman's, is stronger than his affection, and, once subjugated by vice, all external influences will be futile. If Eugene once sinks so low, neither you, nor I, nor his wife—had he one—could reclaim him."

"He has deceived me! Fool that I was not to probe the mask!" Cornelia started up and paced the floor with uncontrollable agitation.

"Take care how you accuse him rashly! I am not prepared to believe that he could act dishonorably toward anyone. I will not believe it." "Oh, you, too, will get your eyes open in due time! Ha! it is all as clear as daylight! And I, with my boasted penetration!—it maddens me!" Her eyes glittered like polished steel.

"Explain yourself; Eugene is above suspicion!" cried Beulah, with pale, fluttering lips.

"Explain myself! Then understand that my honorable brother professed to love you, and pretended that he expected to marry you, simply and solely to blind me, in order to conceal the truth. I taxed him with a preference for Antoinette Dupres, which I fancied his manner evinced. He denied it most earnestly, protesting that he felt bound to you. Now do you understand?" Her lips were white, and writhed with scorn.

"Still you may misjudge him," returned Beulah haughtily.

"No, no! My mother has seen it all along. But, fool that I was, I believed his words! Now, Beulah, if he marries Antoinette, you will be amply revenged, or my name is not Cornelia Graham!" She laughed bitterly, and, dropping some medicine from a vial, swallowed the potion and resumed her walk up and down the floor.

"Revenged! What is it to me, that he should marry your cousin? If he loves her, it is no business of mine, and certainly you have no right to object. You are miserably deceived if you imagine that his marriage would cause me an instant's regret. Think you I could love a man whom I knew to be my inferior? Indeed, you know little of my nature." She spoke with curling lips and a proud smile.

"You place an exalted estimate upon yourself," returned Cornelia.

They looked at each other half-defiantly for a moment; then the heiress bowed her head, and said, in low, broken tones:

"Oh, Beulah, Beulah! child of poverty! would I could change places with you!"

"You are weak, Cornelia," answered Beulah gravely.

"In some respects, perhaps, I am; but you are bold to tell me so."

"Genuine friendship ignores all hesitancy in speaking the truth. You sought me. I am very candid—perhaps blunt. If my honesty does not suit you it is an easy matter to discontinue our intercourse. The whole matter rests with you."

"You wish me to understand that you do not need my society—my patronage?"

"Patronage implies dependence, which, in this instance, does not exist. An earnest, self-reliant woman cannot be patronized, in the sense in which you employ the term." She could not forbear smiling. The thought of being under patronage was, to her, supremely ridiculous.

"You do not want my friendship, then?"

"I doubt whether you have any to bestow. You seem to have no love for anything," replied Beulah coldly.

"Oh, you wrong me!" cried Cornelia passionately.

"If I do, it is your own fault. I only judge you from what you have shown of your nature."

"Remember, I have been an invalid all my life."

"I am not likely to forget it in your presence. But, Cornelia, your whole being seems embittered."

"Yes; and you will be just like me when you have lived as long as I have. Wait till you have seen something of the world."

"Sit down, Cornelia; you tremble from head to foot." She drew a chair close to the hearth, and the sufferer sank into it, as if completely exhausted. For some time neither spoke. Beulah stood with her hands on the back of the chair, wishing herself back in her quiet little room. After a while Cornelia said slowly:

"If you only knew Antoinette as well as I do you could ill brook the thought of her ever being Eugene's wife."

"He is the best judge of what will promote his happiness."

"No; he is blinded, infatuated. Her pretty face veils her miserable, contemptible defects of character. She is utterly unworthy of him."

"If she loves him sincerely, she will—"

"Don't talk of what you do not understand. She is too selfish to love anything or anybody but herself. Mark me, whether I live to see it or not, if he marries her, he will despise her in less than six months, and curse himself for his blind folly. Oh, what a precious farce it will prove!" She laughed sneeringly.

"Cornelia, you are not able to bear this excitement. For the present, let Eugene and his future rest and try to compose yourself. You are so nervous you can scarcely sit still."

The colorless face, with its gleaming eyes, was suddenly lifted; and, throwing her arms round Beulah's neck, Cornelia rested her proud head on the orphan's shoulder.

"Be my friend while I live. Oh, give me some of your calm contentment, some of your strength!"

"I am your friend, Cornelia; I will always be such; but every soul must be sufficient for itself. Do not look to me; lean upon your own nature; it will suffice for all its needs."

With the young teacher, pity was almost synonymous with contempt; and, as she looked at the joyless face of her companion, she could not avoid thinking her miserably weak.