On Sabbath morning Beulah sat beside the window, with her folded hands resting on her lap. The day was cloudless and serene; the sky of that intense melting blue which characterizes our clime. From every quarter of the city brazen muezzins called worshipers to the temple, and bands of neatly clad, happy children thronged the streets, on their way to Sabbath school. Save these, and the pealing bells, a hush pervaded all things, as though Nature were indeed "at her prayers." Blessed be the hallowed influences which every sunny Sabbath morn exerts! Blessed be the holy tones which at least once a week call every erring child back to its Infinite Father! For some time Beulah had absented herself from church, for she found that instead of profiting by sermons she came home to criticise and question. But early associations are strangely tenacious, and, as she watched the children trooping to the house of God, there rushed to her mind memories of other years, when the orphan bands from the asylum regularly took their places in the Sabbath school. The hymns she sang then rang again in her ears; long-forgotten passages of Scripture, repeated then, seemed learned but yesterday. How often had the venerable superintendent knelt and invoked special guidance for the afflicted band from the God of orphans! Now she felt doubly orphaned. In her intellectual pride, she frequently asserted that she was "the star of her own destiny"; but this morning childish memories prattled of the Star of Bethlehem, before which she once bent the knee of adoration. Had it set forever, amid clouds of superstition, sin, and infidelity? Glittering spires pointed to the bending heavens, and answered: "It burns on forever, 'brighter and brighter unto the perfect day'!" With a dull weight on her heart, she took down her Bible and opened it indifferently at her book- mark. It proved the thirty-eighth chapter of Job, and she read on and on, until the bells warned her it was the hour of morning service. She walked to church, not humbled and prepared to receive the holy teachings of revelation, but with a defiant feeling in her heart which she did not attempt or care to analyze. She was not accustomed to attend Dr. Hew's church, but the sexton conducted her to a pew, and as she seated herself the solemn notes of the organ swelled through the vaulted aisles. The choir sang a magnificent anthem from Haydn's "Creation," and then only the deep, thundering peal of the organ fell on the dim, cool air. Beulah could bear no more; as she lowered her veil, bitter tears gushed over her troubled face. Just then she longed to fall on her knees before the altar and renew the vows of her childhood; but this impulse very soon died away, and, while the pews on every side rapidly filled, she watched impatiently for the appearance of the minister. Immediately in front of her sat Mr. and Mrs. Graham and Antoinette Dupres. Beulah was pondering the absence of Cornelia and Eugene, when a full, manly voice fell on her ear, and, looking up, she saw Mr. Mortimor standing in the pulpit. He looked older than Pauline's description had prepared her to expect, and the first impression was one of disappointment. But the longer she watched the grave, quiet face the more attractive it became. Certainly he was a handsome man, and, judging from the contour of head and features, an intellectual one. There was an absolute repose in the countenance which might have passed with casual observers for inertia, indifference; but to the practiced physiognomist it expressed the perfect peace of a mind and heart completely harmonious. The voice was remarkably clear and well modulated. His text was selected from the first and last chapters of Ecclesiastes, and consisted of these verses:

"For in much wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge, increaseth sorrow."

"And further, by these, my son, be admonished; of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh. Let us hear the conclusion of the whole matter. Fear God, and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of man."

To the discourse which followed Beulah listened with the deepest interest. She followed the speaker over the desert of ancient Oriental systems, which he rapidly analyzed, and held up as empty shells; lifting the veil of soufism, he glanced at the mystical creed of Algazzali; and, in an epitomized account of the Grecian schools of philosophy, depicted the wild vagaries into which many had wandered, and the unsatisfactory results to which all had attained. Not content with these instances of the insufficiency and mocking nature of human wisdom and learning, he adverted to the destructive tendency of the Helvetian and D'Holbach systems, and, after a brief discussion of their ruinous tenets, dilated, with some erudition upon the conflicting and dangerous theories propounded by Germany. Then came the contemplation of Christianity, from it's rise among the fishermen of Galilee to its present summit of power. For eighteen hundred years it had been assaulted by infidelity, yet each century saw it advancing—a conquering colossus. Throughout the sermon the idea was maintained that human reason was utterly inadequate to discover to man his destiny, that human learning was a great cheat, and that only from the pages of Holy Writ could genuine wisdom be acquired. Men were to be as little children in order to be taught the truths of immortality. Certainly the reasoning was clear and forcible, the philosophic allusions seemed very apropos, and the language was elegant and impassioned. The closing hymn was sung; the organ hushed its worshiping tones; the benediction was pronounced; the congregation dispersed.

As Beulah descended the steps she found Pauline and Mrs. Lockhart waiting at the carriage for her. The latter greeted her with quite a show of cordiality; but the orphan shrank back from the offered kiss, and merely touched the extended hand. She had not forgotten the taunts and unkindness of other days; and, though not vindictive, she could not feign oblivion of the past, nor assume a friendly manner foreign to her. She took her seat in the carriage, and found it rather difficult to withdraw her fascinated eyes from Pauline's lovely face. She knew what was expected of her, however; and said, as they drove rapidly homeward:

"Mr. Mortimor seems to be a man of more than ordinary erudition."

"Did you like his sermon? Do you like him?" asked Pauline eagerly.

"I like him very much indeed; but do not like his sermon at all," answered Beulah bluntly.

"I am sure everybody seemed to be delighted with it," said Mrs.
Lockhart.

"Doubtless the majority of his congregation were; and I was very much interested, though I do not accept his views. His delivery is remarkably impressive, and his voice is better adapted to the pulpit than any I have ever listened to." She strove to say everything favorable which, in candor, she could.

"Still you did not like his sermon?" said Pauline gravely.

"I cannot accept his conclusions."

"I liked the discourse particularly, Pauline. I wish Percy could have heard it," said Mrs. Lockhart.

The daughter took no notice whatever of this considerate speech, and sat quite still, looking more serious than Beulah had ever seen her. Conversation flagged, despite the young teacher's efforts, and she was heartily glad when the carriage entered the avenue. Her heart swelled as she caught sight of the noble old cedars, whose venerable heads seemed to bow in welcome, while the drooping branches held out their arms, as if to embrace her. Each tree was familiar; even the bright coral yaupon clusters were like dear friends greeting her after a long absence. She had never realized until now how much she loved this home of her early childhood, and large drops dimmed her eyes as she passed along the walks where she had so often wandered.

The carriage approached the house, and she saw her quondam guardian standing before the door. He was bare-headed, and the sunshine fell like a halo upon his brown, clustering hair, threading it with gold. He held, in one hand, a small basket of grain, from which he fed a flock of hungry pigeons. On every side they gathered about him—blue and white, brown and mottled—some fluttering down from the roof of the house; two or three, quite tame, perched on his arm, eating from the basket; and one, of uncommon beauty, sat on his shoulder, cooing softly. By his side stood Charon, looking gravely on, as if he, wise soul, thought this familiarity signally impudent. It was a singularly quiet, peaceful scene, which indelibly daguerreotyped itself on Beulah's memory. As the carriage whirled round the circle, and drew up at the door, the startled flock wheeled off; and, brushing the grain from his hands, Dr. Hartwell advanced to assist his sister. Pauline sprang out first, exclaiming:

"You abominable heathen! Why didn't you come to church? Even Dr.
Asbury was out."

"Guy, you missed an admirable sermon," chimed in Mrs. Lockhart.

He was disengaging the fringe of Pauline's shawl, which caught the button of his coat, and, looking up as his sister spoke, his eyes met Beulah's anxious gaze. She had wondered very much how he would receive her. His countenance expressed neither surprise nor pleasure; he merely held out his hand to assist her, saying, in his usual grave manner:

"I am glad to see you, Beulah."

She looked up in his face for some trace of the old kindness; but the rare, fascinating smile and protective tenderness had utterly vanished. He returned her look with a calmly indifferent glance, which pained her more than any amount of sternness could have done. She snatched her hand from his, and, missing the carriage step, would have fallen, but he caught and placed her safely on the ground, saying coolly:

"Take care; you are awkward."

She followed Pauline up the steps, wishing herself at home in her little room. But her companion's gay chat diverted her mind, and she only remembered how very beautiful was the face she looked on.

They stood together before a mirror, smoothing their hair, and Beulah could not avoid contrasting the images reflected. One was prematurely grave and thoughtful in its expression—the other radiant with happy hopes. Pauline surmised what was passing in her friend's mind, and said merrily:

"For shame, Beulah! to envy me my poor estate of good looks! Why, I am all nose and eyes, curls, red lips, and cheeks; but you have an additional amount of brains to balance my gifts. Once I heard Uncle Guy say that you had more intellect than all the other women and children in the town! Come; Mr. Lockhart wants to see you very much."

She ran down the steps as heedlessly as in her childhood, and Beulah followed her more leisurely. In the study they found the remainder of the party; Mr. Lockhart was wrapt in a heavy dressing-gown, and reclined on the sofa. He welcomed Beulah very warmly, keeping her hand in his and making her sit down near him. He was emaciated, and a hacking cough prevented his taking any active part in the conversation. One glance at his sad face sufficed to show her that his days on earth were numbered, and the expression with which he regarded his wife told all the painful tale of an unhappy marriage. She was discussing the sermon, and declaring herself highly gratified at the impression which Mr. Mortimor had evidently made on his large and fashionable congregation. Dr. Hartwell stood on the hearth, listening in silence to his sister's remarks. The Atlantic might have rolled between them, for any interest he evinced in the subject. Pauline was restless and excited; finally she crossed the room, stood close to her uncle, and, carelessly fingering his watch chain, said earnestly: "Uncle Guy, what did Ernest mean, this morning, by a 'Fourieristic-phalanx?'"

"A land where learned men are captivated by blue eyes and rosy lips," answered the doctor, looking down into her sparkling face.

As they stood together Beulah remarked how very much Pauline resembled him. True, he was pale, and she was a very Hebe, but the dazzling transparency of the complexion was the same, the silky, nut-brown hair the same, and the classical chiseling of mouth and nose identical. Her eyes were "deeply, darkly," matchlessly blue, and his were hazel; her features were quivering with youthful joyousness and enthusiasm, his might have been carved in ivory, they seemed so inflexible; still they were alike. Pauline did not exactly relish the tone of his reply, and said hastily:

"Uncle Guy, I wish you would not treat me as if I were an idiot; or, what is not much better, a two-year-old child! How am I ever to learn any sense?"

"Indeed, I have no idea," said he, passing his soft hand over her glossy curls.

"You are very provoking! Do you want Ernest to think me a fool?"

"Have you waked to a consciousness of that danger?"

"Yes; and I want you to teach me something. Come, tell me what that thing is I asked you about."

"Tell you what?"

"Why, what a—a 'Fourieristic-phalanx' is?" said she earnestly.

Beulah could not avoid smiling, and wondered how he managed to look so very serious, as he replied:

"I know very little about the tactics of Fourieristic-phalanxes, but believe a phalange is a community or association of about eighteen hundred persons, who were supposed or intended to practice the Fourieristic doctrines. In fine, a phalange is a sort of French Utopia."

"And where is that, sir?" asked Pauline innocently, without taking her eyes from his face.

"Utopia is situated in No-country, and its chief city is on the banks of the river Waterless."

"Oh, Uncle Guy! how can you quiz me so unmercifully, when I ask you to explain things to me?"

"Why, Pauline, I am answering your questions correctly. Sir Thomas More professed to describe Utopia, which means No-place, and mentions a river Waterless. Don't look so desperately lofty. I will show you the book, if you are so incorrigibly stupid." He passed his arm round her as he spoke, and kept her close beside him.

"Mr. Lockhart, is he telling the truth?" cried she incredulously.

"Certainly he is," answered her stepfather, smiling.

"Oh, I don't believe either of you! You two think that I am simple enough to believe any absurdity you choose to tell me. Beulah, what is Utopia?"

"Just what your uncle told you. More used Greek words which signified nothing, in order to veil the satire."

"Oh, a satire! Now, what is the reason you could not say it was a satire, you wiseacre?"

"Because I gave you credit for some penetration, and at least common sense."

"Both of which I have proved myself devoid of, I suppose? Thank you." She threw her arms round his neck, kissed him once or twice, and laughingly added: "Come now, Uncle Guy, tell me what these 'phalanxes,' as you call them, have to do with Ernest's text?"

"I really cannot inform you. There is the dinner bell." Unclasping her arms, he led the way to the dining room.

Later in the afternoon Mr. Lockhart retired to his own room; his wife fell asleep on the sofa, and Beulah and Pauline sat at the parlor window, discussing the various occurrences of their long separation. Pauline talked of her future—how bright it was; how very much she and Ernest loved each other, and how busy she would be when she had a home of her own. She supposed she would be obliged to give up dancing; she had an indistinct idea that preachers' wives were not in the habit of indulging in any such amusements, and, as for the theater and opera, she rather doubted whether either were to be found in the inland town where she was to reside. Uncle Guy wished to furnish the parsonage, and, among other things, had ordered an elegant piano for her; she intended to practice a great deal, because Ernest was so fond of music. Uncle Guy had a hateful habit of lecturing her about "domestic affairs," but she imagined the cook would understand her own business; and if Mr. Mortimor supposed she was going to play housemaid, why, she would very soon undeceive him. Beulah was much amused at the childlike simplicity with which she discussed her future, and began to think the whole affair rather ludicrous, when Pauline started, and exclaimed, as the blood dyed her cheeks:

"There is Ernest coming up the walk!"

He came in, and greeted her with gentle gravity. He was a dignified, fine-looking man, with polished manners and perfect self-possession. There was no trace of austerity in his countenance, and nothing in his conversation betokening a desire to impress strangers with his ministerial dignity. He was highly cultivated in all his tastes, agreeable, and, in fine, a Christian gentleman. Pauline seemed to consider his remarks oracular, and Beulah could not forbear contrasting her quietness in his presence with the wild, frolicsome recklessness which characterized her manner on other occasions. She wondered what singular freak induced this staid, learned clergyman to select a companion so absolutely antagonistic in every element of character. But a glance at Pauline's perfectly beautiful face explained the mystery. How could anyone help loving her, she was so radiant and so winning in her unaffected artlessness?

Beulah conjectured that they might, perhaps, entertain each other without her assistance, and soon left them for the greenhouse, which was connected with the parlors by a glass door. Followed by Charon, who had remained beside her all day, she walked slowly between the rows of plants, many of which were laden with flowers. Brilliant clusters of scarlet geranium, pale, fragrant heliotropes, and camellias of every hue surrounded her. Two or three canary birds, in richly ornate cages, chirped and twittered continually, and for a moment she forgot the changes that had taken place since the days when she sought this favorite greenhouse to study her text-books. Near her stood an antique China vase containing a rare creeper, now full of beautiful, star-shaped lilac flowers. Many months before, her guardian had given her this root, and she had planted it in this same vase; now the long, graceful wreaths were looped carefully back, and tied to a slender stake. She bent over the fragrant blossoms, with a heart brimful of memories, and tears dropped thick and fast on the delicate petals. Charon gave a short bark of satisfaction, and, raising her head, she saw Dr. Hartwell at the opposite end of the greenhouse. He was clipping the withered flowers from a luxuriant white japonica, the same that once furnished ornaments for her hair. Evidently, he was rather surprised to see her there, but continued clipping the faded blossoms, and whistled to his dog. Charon acknowledged the invitation by another bark, but nestled his great head against Beulah, and stood quite still, while she passed her hand caressingly over him. She fancied a smile crossed her guardian's lips; but when he turned toward her there was no trace of it, and he merely said:

"Where is Pauline?"

"In the parlor, with Mr. Mortimer."

"Here are the scissors; cut as many flowers as you like."

He held out the scissors; but she shook her head, and answered hastily:

"Thank you; I do not want any."

He looked at her searchingly, and, observing unshed tears in her eyes, said, in a kinder tone than he had yet employed:

"Beulah, what do you want?"

"Something that I almost despair of obtaining."

"Child, you are wasting your strength and energies in a fruitless undertaking. Already you have grown thin and hollow-eyed; your accustomed contented, cheerful spirit is deserting you. Your self- appointed task is a hopeless one; utterly hopeless!"

"I will not believe it," said she firmly.

"Very well; some day you will be convinced that you are not infallible." He smiled grimly, and busied himself with his flowers.

"Sir, you could help me, if you would." She clasped her hands over his arm, and fixed her eyes on his countenance, with all the confidence and dependence of other days.

"Did I ever refuse you anything you asked?" said he, looking down at the little hands on his arm, and at the pale, anxious face, with its deep, troubled eyes.

"No! and it is precisely for that reason that I ask assistance from you now."

"I suppose you are reduced to the last necessity. What has become of your pride, Beulah?"

"It is all here, in my heart, sir! thundering to me to walk out and leave you, since you are so unlike yourself!"

He looked stern and indescribably sad. She glanced up an instant at his fascinating eyes, and then, laying her head down on his arm, as she used to do in childhood, said resolutely:

"Oh, sir! you must aid me. Whom have I to advise me but you?"

"My advice has about as much weight with you as Charon's would, could he utter it. I am an admirable counselor only so long as my opinions harmonize with the dictates of your own will. How am I to aid you? I went, at twelve o'clock last night, to see a dying man, and, passing along the street, saw a light burning from your window. Two hours later, as I returned, it glimmered there still. Why were you up? Beulah, what is the matter with you? Has your last treatise on the 'Origin of Ideas' run away with those of its author, and landed you both in a region of vagaries? Remember, I warned you."

"Something worse, sir." "Perhaps German metaphysics have stranded you on the bleak, bald cliffs of Pyrrhonism?"

"Sir, it seems to me there is a great deal of unmerited odium laid upon the innocent shoulders of German metaphysics. People declaim against the science of metaphysics, as if it were the disease itself; whereas it is the remedy. Metaphysics do not originate the trouble; their very existence proves the priority of the disease which they attempt to relieve—"

"Decidedly a homeopathic remedy," interrupted her guardian, smiling.

"But, sir, the questions which disturb my mind are older than my acquaintance with so-called philosophic works. They have troubled me from my childhood."

"Nevertheless, I warned you not to explore my library," said he, with a touch of sorrow in his voice.

"How, then, can you habitually read books which you are unwilling to put into my hands?"

"To me all creeds and systems are alike null. With you, Beulah, it was once very different."

"Once! yes, once!" She shuddered at the wild waste into which she had strayed.

"What are the questions that have so long disturbed you?"

"Questions, sir, which, all my life, have been printed on evening sun-flushed clouds, on rosy sea shells, on pale, sweet, delicate blossoms, and which I have unavailingly sought to answer for myself. There are mysteries in physics, morals, and metaphysics that have wooed me on to an investigation; but the further I wander, deeper grows the darkness. Alone and unaided I have been forced to brave these doubts; I have studied, and read, and thought. Cloudy symbolisms mock me on every side; and the more earnestly I strive to overtake truth the tighter grow my eyes. Now, sir, you are much older; you have scaled the dizzy heights of science and carefully explored the mines of philosophy; and if human learning will avail, then you can help me. It is impossible for you to have lived and studied so long without arriving at some conclusion relative to these vexing questions of this and every other age. I want to know whether I have ever lived before; whether there is not an anterior life of my soul, of which I get occasional glimpses, and the memory of which haunts and disquiets me. This doubt has not been engendered by casual allusions to Plato's 'reminiscence theory'; before I knew there was such a doctrine in existence I have sat by your study fire, pondering some strange coincidences for which I could not account. It seemed an indistinct outgoing into the far past; a dim recollection of scenes and ideas, older than the aggregate of my birthdays; now a flickering light, then all darkness; no clew; all shrouded in the mystery of voiceless ages. I tried to explain these psychological phenomena by the theory of association of ideas, but they eluded an analysis; there was no chain along which memory can pass. They were like ignes fatui, flashing up from dank caverns and dying out while I looked upon them. As I grew older I found strange confirmation in those curious passages of Coleridge and Wordsworth, [Footnote: Coleridge's "Sonnet on the Birth of a Son." Wordsworth's "Ode—Intimations of Immortality."] and continually I propound to my soul these questions: 'If you are immortal, and will exist through endless ages, have you not existed from the beginning of time? Immortality knows neither commencement nor ending. If so, whither shall I go when this material framework is dissolved? to make other frameworks? to a final rest? Or shall the I, the me, the soul, lose its former identity? Am I a minute constituent of the all-diffused, all-pervading Spirit, a breath of the Infinite Essence, one day to be divested of my individuality? or is God an awful, gigantic, immutable, isolated Personality? If so, what medium of communication is afforded? Can the spiritual commune with matter? Can the material take cognizance of the purely spiritual and divine?' Oh, sir! I know that you do not accept the holy men of Galilee as His deputed oracles. Tell me where you find surer prophets. Only show me the truth—the eternal truth, and I would give my life for it! Sir, how can you smile at such questions as these—questions involving the soul's destiny? One might fancy you a second Parrhasius."

She drew back a step or two and regarded him anxiously, nay, pleadingly, as though he held the key to the Temple of Truth, and would not suffer her to pass the portal. A sarcastic smile lighted his Apollo-like face, as he answered:

"There is more truth in your metaphor than you imagined; a la Parrhasius, I do see you, a tortured Prometheus, chained by links of your own forging to the Caucasus of Atheism. But listen to—"

"No, no; not that! not Atheism! God save me from that deepest, blackest gulf!" She shuddered, and covered her face with her hands.

"Beulah, you alone must settle these questions with your own soul; my solutions would not satisfy you. For thousands of years they have been propounded, and yet no answer comes down on the 'cloudy wings of centuries.' Each must solve to suit his or her peculiar conformation of mind. My child, if I could aid you I would gladly do so; but I am no Swedenborg, to whom the arcana of the universe have been revealed."

"Still, after a fashion, you have solved these problems. May I not know what your faith is?" said she earnestly.

"Child, I have no faith! I know that I exist; that a beautiful universe surrounds me, and I am conscious of a multitude of conflicting emotions; but, like Launcelot Smith, I doubt whether I am 'to pick and choose myself out of myself.' Further than this I would assure you of nothing. I stand on the everlasting basis of all skepticism, 'There is no criterion of truth! All must be but subjectively, relatively true.'"

"Sir, this may be so as regards psychological abstractions; but can you be contented with this utter negation of the grand problems of ontology?"

"A profound philosophic writer of the age intimates that the various psychological systems which have so long vexed the world are but veiled ontologic speculations. What matters the machinery of ideas, but as enabling philosophy to cope successfully with ontology? Philosophy is a huge wheel which has been revolving for ages; early metaphysicians hung their finely spun webs on its spokes, and metaphysicians of the nineteenth century gaze upon and renew the same pretty theories as the wheel revolves. The history of philosophy shows but a reproduction of old systems and methods of inquiry. Beulah, no mine of ontologic truth has been discovered. Conscious of this, our seers tell us there is nothing now but 'eclecticism'! Ontology is old as human nature, yet the stone of Sisyphus continues to roll back upon the laboring few who strive to impel it upward. Oh, child, do you not see how matters stand? Why, how can the finite soul cope with Infinite Being? This is one form— the other, if we can take cognizance of the Eternal and Self- existing Being, underlying all phenomena, why, then, we are part and parcel of that Infinity. Pantheism or utter skepticism—there is no retreat."

"I don't want to believe that, sir. I will not believe it. What was my reason given to me for? Was this spirit of inquiry after truth only awakened in my soul to mock me with a sense of my nothingness? Why did my Maker imbue me with an insatiable thirst for knowledge? Knowledge of the deep things of philosophy, the hidden wonders of the universe, the awful mysteries of the shadowy spirit realm? Oh, there are analogies pervading all departments! There is physical hunger to goad to exertions which will satisfy its demands, and most tonics are bitter; so, bitter struggles develop and strengthen the soul, even as hard study invigorates the mind and numerous sorrows chasten the heart. There is truth for the earnest seeker somewhere— somewhere! If I live a thousand years I will toil after it till I find it. If, as you believe, death is annihilation, then will I make the most of my soul while I have it. Oh, sir, what is life for? Merely to eat and drink, to sleep and be clothed? Is it to be only a constant effort to keep soul and body together? If I thought so I would rather go back to nothingness this day—this hour! No, no! My name bids me press on; there is a land of Beulah somewhere for my troubled spirit. Oh, I will go back to my humble home, and study on, unguided, unassisted even as I have begun. I cannot rest on your rock of negation."

She could not control her trembling voice, and tears of bitter disappointment fell over her pale, fixed features. A melancholy smile parted Dr. Hartwell's lips, and, smoothing the bands of rippling hair which lay on her white brow, he answered in his own thrilling, musical accents:

"Child, you are wasting your energies in vain endeavors to build up walls of foam that—"

"Sir, I am no longer a child! I am a woman, and—"

"Yes, my little Beulah, and your woman's heart will not be satisfied long with these dim abstractions, which now you chase so eagerly. Mark me, there surely comes a time when you will loathe the bare name of metaphysics. You are making a very hotbed of your intellect, while you heart is daily becoming a dreary desert. Take care, lest the starvation be so complete that eventually you will be unable to reclaim it. Dialectics answer very well in collegiate halls, but will not content you. Remember 'Argemone.'"

"She is a miserable libel on woman's nature and intellect. I scorn the attempted parallel!" answered Beulah indignantly.

"Very well; mark me, though, your intellectual pride will yet wreck your happiness."

He walked out of the greenhouse, whistling to Charon, who bounded after him. Beulah saw from the slanting sunlight that the afternoon was far advanced, and feeling in no mood to listen to Pauline's nonsense she found her bonnet and shawl, and repaired to the parlor to say good-by to the happy pair, who seemed unconscious of her long absence. As she left the house the window of the study was thrown open, and Dr. Hartwell called out carelessly:

"Wait, and let me order the carriage."

"No, thank you."

"I am going into town directly, and can take you home in the buggy."

"I will not trouble you; I prefer walking. Good-by."

He bowed coldly, and she hurried away, glad to reach the gate and feel that she was once more free from his searching glance and beyond the sound of his reserved, chilling tones. As she walked on, groups of happy parents and children were seen in every direction, taking their quiet Sabbath ramble through the suburbs; and as joyous voices and innocent laughter fell upon the still air, she remembered with keen sorrow that she had no ties, no kindred, no companions. Lilly's cherub face looked out at her from the somber frame of the past, and Eugene's early friendship seemed now a taunting specter. In her warm, loving heart were unfathomable depths of intense tenderness. Was it the wise providence of God which sealed these wells of affection, or was it a grim, merciless fate which snatched her idols from her, one by one, and left her heart desolate? Such an inquiry darted through her mind; but she put it resolutely aside, and consoled herself much after this fashion: "Why should I question the circumstances of my life? If the God of Moses guards his creation, all things are well. If not, life is a lottery, and though I have drawn blanks thus far, the future may contain a prize, and for me that prize may be the truth my soul pants after. I have no right to complain; the very loneliness of my position fits me peculiarly for the work I have to do. I will labor, and be content." The cloud passed swiftly from her countenance, and she looked up to the quiet sky with a brave, hopeful heart.