Among the number of gentlemen whom Beulah occasionally met at Dr. Asbury's house were two whose frequent visits and general demeanor induced the impression that they were more than ordinarily interested in the sisters. Frederick Vincent evinced a marked preference for Georgia, while Horace Maxwell was conspicuously attentive to Helen. The former was wealthy, handsome, indolent, and self-indulgent; the latter rather superior, as to business habits, which a limited purse peremptorily demanded. Doubtless both would have passed as men of medium capacity, but certainly as nothing more. In fine, they were fair samples, perfect types of the numerous class of fashionable young men who throng all large cities. Good- looking, vain, impudent, heartless, frivolous, and dissipated; adepts at the gaming table and pistol gallery, ciphers in an intelligent, refined assembly. They smoked the choicest cigars, drank the most costly wines, drove the fastest horses, and were indispensable at champagne and oyster suppers. They danced and swore, visited and drank, with reckless indifference to every purer and nobler aim. Notwithstanding manners of incorrigible effrontery which characterized their clique, the ladies always received them with marked expressions of pleasure, and the entree of the "first circle" was certainly theirs. Dr. Asbury knew comparatively little of the young men who visited so constantly at his house, but of the two under discussion he chanced to know that they were by no means models of sobriety, having met them late one night as they supported each other's tottering forms homeward, after a card and wine party, which ended rather disastrously for both. He openly avowed his discontent at the intimacy their frequent visits induced, and wondered how his daughters could patiently indulge in the heartless chit-chat which alone could entertain them. But he was a fond, almost doting father, and seemed to take it for granted that they were mere dancing acquaintances, whose society must be endured. Mrs. Asbury was not so blind, and discovered, with keen sorrow and dismay, that Georgia was far more partial to Vincent than she had dreamed possible. The mother's heart ached with dread lest her child's affections were really enlisted, and, without her husband's knowledge she passed many hours of bitter reflection as to the best course she should pursue to arrest Vincent's intimacy at the house. Only a woman knows woman's heart, and she felt that Georgia's destiny would be decided by the measures she now employed. Ridicule, invective, and even remonstrance she knew would only augment her interest in one whom she considered unjustly dealt with. She was thoroughly acquainted with the obstinacy which formed the stamen of Georgia's character, and very cautiously the maternal guidance must be given. She began by gravely regretting the familiar footing Mr. Vincent had acquired in her family, and urged upon Georgia and Helen the propriety of discouraging attentions that justified the world in joining their names. This had very little effect. She was conscious that because of his wealth Vincent was courted and flattered by the most select and fashionable of her circle of acquaintances, and knew, alas! that he was not more astray than the majority of the class of young men to which he belonged. With a keen pang, she saw that her child shrank from her, evaded her kind questions, and seemed to plunge into the festivities of the season with unwonted zest. From their birth she had trained her daughters to confide unreservedly in her, and now to perceive the youngest avoiding her caresses, or hurrying away from her anxious glance, was bitter indeed. How her pure-hearted darling could tolerate the reckless, frivolous being in whose society she seemed so well satisfied was a painful mystery; but the startling reality looked her in the face, and she resolved, at every hazard, to save her from the misery which was in store for Fred Vincent's wife. Beulah's quick eye readily discerned the state of affairs relative to Georgia and Vincent, and she could with difficulty restrain an expression of the disgust a knowledge of his character inspired. He was a brother of the Miss Vincent she had once seen at Dr. Hartwell's, and probably this circumstance increased her dislike. Vincent barely recognized her when they chanced to meet, and, of all his antipathies, hatred of Beulah predominated. He was perfectly aware that she despised his weaknesses and detested his immoralities; and, while he shrank from the steadfast gray eyes, calm but contemptuous, he hated her heartily.

Cornelia Graham seemed for a time to have rallied all her strength, and attended parties and kept her place at the opera with a regularity which argued a complete recovery. Antoinette Dupres was admired and nattered; the season was unusually gay. What if Death had so lately held his awful assize in the city? Bereaved families wrapped their sable garments about lonely hearts, and wept over the countless mounds in the cemetery; but the wine-cup and song and dance went their accustomed rounds in fashionable quarters, and drink, dress, and be merry appeared the all-absorbing thought. Into this gayety Eugene Graham eagerly plunged; night after night was spent in one continued whirl; day by day he wandered further astray, and ere long his visits to Beulah ceased entirely. Antoinette thoroughly understood the game she had to play, and easily and rapidly he fell into the snare. To win her seemed his only wish; and not even Cornelia's keenly searching eyes could check his admiration and devotion. January had gone; February drew near its close. Beulah had not seen Eugene for many days and felt more than usually anxious concerning him, for little intercourse now existed between Cornelia and herself. One evening, however, as she stood before a glass and arranged her hair with more than ordinary care, she felt that she would soon have an opportunity of judging whether reports were true. If he indeed rushed along the highway to ruin, one glance would discover to her the fact. Dr. Asbury wished to give Pauline Chilton a party, and his own and Mrs. Asbury's kind persuasions induced the orphan to consent to attend. The evening had arrived. She put on her simple Swiss muslin dress, without a wish for anything more costly, and entered the carriage her friends had sent to convey her to the house. The guests rapidly assembled; soon the rooms were thronged with merry people, whose moving to and fro prevented regular conversation. The brilliant chandeliers flashed down on rich silks and satins, gossamer fabrics, and diamonds which blazed dazzlingly. Pauline was superbly beautiful. Excitement lighted her eyes and flushed her cheeks, until all paused to gaze at her transcendent loveliness. It was generally known that ere many days her marriage would take place, and people looked at her in her marvelous, queenly beauty, and wondered what infatuation induced her to give her hand to a minister, when she, of all others present, seemed made to move in the gay scene where she reigned supreme. From a quiet seat near the window Beulah watched her airy, graceful form glide through the quadrille, and feared that in future years she would sigh for the gayeties which in her destined lot would be withheld from her. She tried to fancy the dazzling beauty metamorphosed into the staid clergyman's wife, divested of satin and diamonds, and visiting the squalid and suffering portion of her husband's flock. But the contrast was too glaring, and she turned her head to watch for Eugene's appearance. Before long she saw him cross the room with Antoinette on his arm. The quadrille had ended, and as, at the request of one of the guests, the band played a brilliant mazourka, numerous couples took their places on the floor. Beulah had never seen the mazourka danced in public; she knew that neither Helen nor Georgia ever danced the so-called "fancy dances," and was not a little surprised when the gentlemen encircled the waists of their partners and whirled away. Her eyes followed Eugene's tall form, as the circuit of the parlors was rapidly made, and he approached the corner where she sat. He held his lovely partner close to his heart, and her head drooped very contentedly on his shoulder. He was talking to her as they danced, and his lips nearly touched her glowing cheek. On they came, so close to Beulah that Antoinette's gauzy dress floated against her, and, as the music quickened, faster flew the dancers. Beulah looked on with a sensation of disgust which might have been easily read in her countenance; verily she blushed for her degraded sex, and, sick of the scene, left the window and retreated to the library, where the more sedate portion of the guests were discussing various topics. Here were Mr. and Mrs. Grayson; Claudia was North, at school. Beulah found a seat near Mrs. Asbury, and endeavored to banish the painful recollections which Mrs. Grayson's face recalled. They had not met since the memorable day when the orphan first found a guardian, and she felt that there was still an unconquerable aversion in her heart which caused it to throb heavily. She thought the time tediously long, and when at last the signal for supper was given, felt relieved. As usual, there was rushing and squeezing into the supper room, and, waiting until the hall was comparatively deserted, she ran up to the dressing room for her shawl, tired of the crowd and anxious to get home again. She remembered that she had dropped her fan behind one of the sofas in the parlor, and, as all were at supper, fancied she could obtain it unobserved, and entered the room for that purpose. A gentleman stood by the fire; but, without noticing him, she pushed the sofa aside, secured her fan, and was turning away when a well-known voice startled her.

"Beulah, where are you going?"

"Home, sir."

"What! so soon tired?"

"Yes; heartily tired," said she, wrapping her shawl about her.

"Have you spoken to Eugene to-night?"

"No."

Her guardian looked at her very intently, as if striving to read her soul, and said slowly:

"Child, he and Antoinette are sitting in the front parlor. I happened to overhear a remark as I passed them. He is an accepted lover; they are engaged."

A quick shiver ran over Beulah's frame, and a dark frown furrowed her pale brow, as she answered:

"I feared as much."

"Why should you fear, child? She is a beautiful heiress, and he loves her," returned Dr. Hartwell, without taking his eyes from her face.

"No; he thinks he loves her, but it is not so. He is fascinated by her beauty; but I fear the day will come when, discovering her true character, he will mourn his infatuation. I know his nature, and I know, too, that she cannot make him happy."

She turned away; but he walked on with her to the carriage, handed her in, and said "Good-night" as coldly as usual. Meantime, the rattle of plates, jingle of forks and spoons, in the supper room, would have rendered all conversation impossible had not the elevation of voices kept pace with the noise and confusion. At one end of the table Cornelia Graham stood talking to a distinguished foreigner who was spending a few days in the city. He was a handsome man, with fine colloquial powers, and seemed much interested in a discussion which he and Cornelia carried on, relative to the society of American cities as compared with European. A temporary lull in the hum of voices allowed Cornelia to hear a remark made by a gentleman quite near her.

"Miss Laura, who did you say that young lady was that Mrs. Asbury introduced me to? The one with such magnificent hair and teeth?"

His companion was no other than Laura Martin, whose mother, having built an elegant house and given several large parties, was now a "fashionable," par excellence. Laura elevated her nose very perceptibly, and answered:

"Oh, a mere nobody! Beulah Benton. I can't imagine how she contrived to be invited here. She is a teacher in the public school, I believe; but that is not the worst. She used to hire herself out as a servant. Indeed, it is a fact, she was my little brother's nurse some years ago. I think ma hired her for six dollars a month." She laughed affectedly, and allowed her escort to fill her plate with creams.

Cornelia grew white with anger, and the stranger asked, with a smile, if he should consider this a sample of the society she boasted of. Turning abruptly to Laura, she replied, with undisguised contempt:

"The Fates forbid, Mr. Falconer, that you should judge American society from some of the specimens you may see here to-night! Misfortune placed Miss Benton, at an early age, in an orphan asylum, and while quite young she left it to earn a support. Mrs. Martin (this young lady's mother) hired her as a nurse; but she soon left this position, qualified herself to teach, and now, with a fine intellect thoroughly cultivated, is the pride of all who can appreciate true nobility of soul and, of course, an object of envy and detraction to her inferiors, especially to some of our fashionable parvenus, whose self-interest prompts them to make money alone the standard of worth, and who are in the habit of determining the gentility of different persons by what they have, not what they are."

Her scornful glance rested witheringly on Laura's face, and, mortified and enraged, the latter took her companion's arm and moved away.

"I have some desire to become acquainted with one who could deserve such eulogy from you," answered the foreigner, somewhat amused at the course the conversation had taken and quite satisfied that Americans were accustomed to correct false impressions in rather an abrupt manner.

"I will present you to her with great pleasure. She is not here; we must search for her."

She took his arm, and they looked for Beulah from room to room; finally, Dr. Hartwell informed Cornelia that she had gone home, and, tired and out of humor, the latter excused herself and prepared to follow her friend's example. Her father was deep in a game of whist, her mother unwilling to return home so soon, and Eugene and Antoinette—where were they? Dr. Hartwell saw her perplexed expression, and asked:

"Whom are you looking for?"

"Eugene."

"He is with your cousin on the west gallery. I will conduct you to them, if you wish it."

He offered his arm, and noticed the scowl that instantly darkened her face. Unconsciously her fingers grasped his arm tightly, and she walked on with a lowering brow. As they approached the end of the gallery Cornelia saw that the two she sought stood earnestly conversing. Eugene's arm passed round Antoinette's waist. Dr. Hartwell watched his companion closely; the light from the window gleamed over her face and showed it gray and rigid. Her white lips curled as she muttered:

"Let us take another turn before I speak to them."

"Surely you are not surprised?"

"Oh, no! I am not blind!"

"It was an unlucky chance that threw your cousin in his path," said the doctor composedly.

"Oh, it is merely another link in the chain of fatality which binds my family to misfortune. She has all the family traits of the Labords, and you know what they are," cried Cornelia.

He compressed his lips, and a lightning glance shot out from his eyes; but he stilled the rising tempest, and replied coldly:

"Why, then, did you not warn him?"

"Warn him! So I did. But I might as well grasp at the stars yonder as hope to influence him in this infatuation."

Once more they approached the happy pair, and, leaning forward,
Cornelia said hoarsely:

"Eugene, my father is engaged; come home with me."

He looked up, and answered carelessly: "Oh, you are leaving too early. Can't you entertain yourself a little longer?"

"No, sir."

Her freezing tone startled him, and for the first time he noticed the haggard face, with its expression of angry scorn. Her eyes were fixed on Antoinette, who only smiled and looked triumphantly defiant.

"Are you ill, Cornelia? Of course I will take you home if you really desire it. Doctor, I must consign Miss Dupres to your care till I return."

Eugene by no means relished the expression of his sister's countenance. She bade Dr. Harwell adieu, passed her arm through her brother's, and they proceeded to their carriage. The ride was short and silent. On reaching home, Eugene conducted Cornelia into the house, and was about to return when she said imperiously:

"A word with you before you go."

She entered the sitting room, threw her wrappings on a chair, and began to divest herself of bracelets and necklace. Eugene lighted a cigar and stood waiting to hear what she might choose to communicate. Fastening her brilliant black eyes on his face, she said sneeringly:

"Eugene Graham, did you learn dissimulation in the halls of
Heidelberg?"

"What do you mean, Cornelia?"

"Where did you learn to deceive one who believed you pure and truthful as an archangel? Answer me that." Her whole face was a glare of burning scorn.

"Insulting insinuations are unworthy of you and beneath my notice," he proudly replied.

"Well, then, take the more insulting truth! What crawling serpent of temptation induced you to tell me you expected to marry Beulah? No evasion! I will not be put off! Why did you deceive me with a falsehood I was too stupidly trusting to discover until recently?"

"When I told you so I expected to marry Beulah; not so much because I loved her, but because I supposed that she rather considered me bound to her by early ties. I discovered, however, that her happiness was not dependent on me, and therefore abandoned the idea."

"And my peerless cousin is to be your bride, eh?"

"Yes; she has promised me her hand at an early day."

"No doubt. You don't deserve anything better. Beulah scorns you; I see it in her eyes. Marry you! You! Oh, Eugene, she is far too superior to you. You are blind now; but the day will surely come when your charmer will, with her own hand, tear the veil from your eyes, and you will curse your folly. It is of no use to tell you that she is false, heartless, utterly unprincipled; you will not believe it, of course, till you find out her miserable defects yourself. I might thunder warnings in your ears from now till doomsday, and you would not heed me. But whether I live to see it or not, you will bitterly rue your infatuation. You will blush for the name which, as your wife, Antoinette will disgrace. Now leave me."

She pointed to the door, and, too much incensed to reply, he quitted the room with a suppressed oath, slamming the door behind him. Cornelia went up to her own apartment and, without ringing for her maid, took off the elegant dress she wore, and threw her dressing gown round her. The diamond hairpins glowed like coals of fire in her black braids, mocking the gray, bloodless face, and look of wretchedness. She took out the jewels, laid them on her lap, and suffered the locks of hair to fall upon her shoulders. Then great hot tears rolled over her face; heavy sobs convulsed her frame, and, bowing down her head, the haughty heiress wept passionately. Eugene was the only being she really loved; for years her hopes and pride had centered in him. Now down the long vista of coming time she looked and saw him staggering on to ruin and disgrace. She knew her own life would at best be short, and felt that now it had lost its only interest, and she was ready to sink to her last rest rather than witness his future career. This was the first time she had wept since the days of early childhood; but she calmed the fearful struggle in her heart, and, toward dawn, fell asleep, with a repulsive sneer on her lips. The ensuing day she was forced to listen to the complacent comments of her parents, who were well pleased with the alliance. Antoinette was to return home immediately, the marriage would take place in June, and they were all to spend the summer at the North; after which it was suggested that the young couple should reside with Mr. Graham. Cornelia was standing apart when her mother made this proposition, and, turning sharply toward the members of her family, the daughter exclaimed:

"Never! You all know that this match is utterly odious to me. Let Eugene have a house of his own; I have no mind to have Antoinette longer in my home. Nay, father; it will not be for a great while. When I am gone they can come; I rather think I shall not long be in their way. While I do live, let me be quiet, will you?"

Her burning yet sunken eyes ran over the group.

Eugene sprang up and left the room; Antoinette put her embroidered handkerchief to dry eyes; Mrs. Graham looked distressed; and her husband wiped his spectacles. But the mist was in his eyes, and presently large drops fell over his cheeks as he looked at the face and form of his only child.

Cornelia saw his emotion; the great floodgate of her heart seemed suddenly lifted. She passed her white fingers over his gray hair, and murmured brokenly:

"My father—my father! I have been a care and a sorrow to you all my life; I am very wayward and exacting, but bear with your poor child; my days are numbered. Father, when my proud head lies low in the silent grave, then give others my place."

He took her in his arms and kissed her hollow cheek, saying tenderly:

"My darling, you break my heart. Have you ever been denied a wish?
What is there that I can do to make you happy?"

"Give Eugene a house of his own, and let me be at peace in my home.
Will you do this for me?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, my father."

Disengaging his clasping arm, she left them.

A few days after the party at her house, Mrs. Asbury returned home from a visit to the asylum (of which she had recently been elected a manager). In passing the parlor door she heard suppressed voices, looked in, and, perceiving Mr. Vincent seated near Georgia, retired, without speaking, to her own room. Securing the door, she sank on her knees, and besought an all-wise God to direct and aid her in her course of duty. The time had arrived when she must hazard everything to save her child from an ill-fated marriage; and though the mother's heart bled she was firm in her resolve. When Mr. Vincent took leave, and Georgia had returned to her room, Mrs. Asbury sought her. She found her moody and disposed to evade her questions. Passing her arm round her, she said very gently:

"My dear child, let there be perfect confidence between us. Am I not more interested in your happiness than anyone else? My child, what has estranged you of late?"

Georgia made no reply.

"What, but my love for you and anxiety for your happiness, could induce me to object to your receiving Mr. Vincent's attentions?"

"You are prejudiced against him, and always were!"

"I judge the young man only from his conduct. You know—you are obliged to know, that he is recklessly dissipated, selfish, and immoral."

"He is no worse than other young men. I know very few who are not quite as wild as he is. Beside, he has promised to sign the temperance pledge if I will marry him."

"My child, you pain me beyond expression. Does the depravity which prevails here sanction Vincent's dissipation? Oh, Georgia, has association deprived you of horror of vice? Can you be satisfied because others are quite as degraded? He does not mean what he promises; it is merely to deceive you. His intemperate habits are too confirmed to be remedied now; he began early, at college, and has constantly grown worse."

"You are prejudiced," persisted Georgia, unable to restrain her tears.

"If I am, it is because of his profligacy! Can you possibly be attached to such a man?"

Georgia sobbed and cried heartily. Her good sense told her that her mother was right, but it was difficult to relinquish the hope of reforming him. As gently as possible, Mrs. Asbury dwelt upon his utter worthlessness, and the misery and wretchedness which would surely ensue from such a union. With streaming eyes, she implored her to banish the thought, assuring her she would sooner see her in her grave than the wife of a drunkard. And now the care of years was to be rewarded; her firm but gentle reasoning prevailed. Georgia had always reverenced her mother; she knew she was invariably guided by principle; and now, as she listened to her earnest entreaties, all her obstinacy melted away. Throwing herself into her mother's arms, she begged her to forgive the pain and anxiety she had caused her. Mrs. Asbury pressed her to her heart, and silently thanked God for the success of her remonstrances. Of all this Dr. Asbury knew nothing. When Mr. Vincent called the following day Georgia very decidedly rejected him. Understanding from her manner that she meant what she said, he became violently enraged; swore, with a solemn oath, that he would make her repent her trifling; took his hat, and left the house. This sufficed to remove any lingering tenderness from Georgia's heart; and from that hour Fred Vincent darkened the home circle no more.