One afternoon in October the indisposition of one of her music pupils released Beulah earlier than usual, and she determined to seize this opportunity and visit the asylum. Of the walk across the common she never wearied; the grass had grown brown, and, save the deep, changeless green of the ancient pines, only the hectic coloring of the dying year met her eye. The day was cool and windy, and the common presented a scene of boisterous confusion, which she paused to contemplate. A number of boys had collected to play their favorite games; balls flew in every direction and merry shouts rang cheerily through the air. She looked on a few moments at their careless, happy sports, and resumed her walk, feeling that their joyousness was certainly contagious, she was so much lighter-hearted from having watched their beaming faces and listened to their ringing laughter.

As she drew near the asylum gate memory began to pass its fingers over her heart; but here, too, sounds of gladness met her. The orphans were assembled on the lawn in front of the building, chatting as cheerfully as though they were all members of one family. The little ones trundled hoops and chased each other up and down the graveled walks; some of the boys tossed their balls, and a few of the larger girls were tying up chrysanthemums to slender stakes. They were dressed alike; all looked contented, neat, and happy, and their rosy faces presented a noble tribute to the efficacy and untold blessings of the institution. To many of them Beulah was well known. She threw off her bonnet and shawl, and assisted the girls in their work among the flowers, while the little ones gathered around her, lisping their childish welcome and coaxing her to join in their innocent games. The stately China trees, where, in years gone by, Lilly and Claudy had watched the chirping robins, were again clad in their rich, golden livery; and, as Beulah looked up at the red brick walls that had sheltered her head in the early days of orphanage, it seemed but yesterday that she trod these walks and listened to the wintry wind sighing through these same loved trees. The children told her that their matron had been sick and was not yet quite well, and, needing no pilot, Beulah went through the house in search of her. She found her at last in the storeroom, giving out materials for the evening meal, and had an opportunity of observing the change which had taken place in the last few months. She was pale and thin, and her sharpened features wore a depressed, weary expression; but, turning round, she perceived Beulah, and a glad smile broke instantly over her countenance as she clasped the girl's hand in both hers.

"Dear child, I have looked for you a long time. I did not think you would wait so many weeks. Come in and sit down."

"I did not know you had been sick until I came and heard the children speak of it. You should have sent met word. I see you have not entirely recovered."

"No; I am quite feeble yet; but, in time, I hope I shall be well again. Ah, Beulah, I have wanted to see you so much! so much! Child, it seems to me I shall never get used to being separated from you."

Beulah sat on the sofa near her, and the matron's withered hands were passed caressingly over the glossy bands of hair which lay on the orphan's white temples.

"I love to come here occasionally; it does me good. But not too often; that would be painful, you know."

Beulah spoke in a subdned voice, while memory painted the evening when Eugene had sought her in this apartment and wiped away her tears for Lilly's absence. Her features twitched as she thought of the bitter changes that rolling years work, and she sighed unconsciously. The matron's hands were still smoothing her hair, and presently she said, with an anxious, scrutinizing look:

"Have you been sick since you were here last?"

"No. What makes you imagine such a thing?"

"Dear child, I do not imagine; I know you look worn and ill. Why, Beulah, hold up your hand; there, see how transparent it is! Almost like wax! Something ails you, child; that I know well enough."

"No, I assure you, I am not ill. Sometimes, of late, I have been troubled with the old headaches you used to cure when I was a child; but, on the whole, I am well."

"Beulah, they tell me Eugene is married," said the kind-hearted woman, with another look at the quiet face beside her.

"Yes; he was married nearly five months ago." A tremor passed over her lips as she spoke.

"Did you see his wife?"

"Yes; she is a very pretty woman. I may say, a beautiful woman; but she does not suit him. At least, I am afraid she will not."

"Ah, I knew as much! I thought as much!" cried Mrs. Williams.

"Why?" asked Beulah wonderingly.

"Oh, money cloaks all faults, child. I knew he did not marry her for love!"

Beulah started a little, and said hastily:

"You do him injustice—great injustice! Eugene was charmed by her beauty, not her fortune?"

"Oh, heiresses are always beautiful and charming in the eyes of the world! Beulah, do you know that I watched for Eugene, for days, and weeks, and months after his return from Europe? I wanted to see him- -oh, so much! I loved you both as though you were my own children. I was so proud of that boy! I had raised him from a crawling infant, and never dreamed that he would forget me. But he did not come. I have not seen him since he left, six years ago, for Germany. Oh, the boy has pained me—pained me! I loved him so much!"

Beulah's brow clouded heavily, as she said:

"It is better so—better that you should not see him. He is not what he was when he quitted us."

"Is it true, then, that he drinks—that he is wild and dissipated? I heard it once, but would not believe it. Oh, it can't be that Eugene drinks?"

"Yes, he drinks—not to stupid intoxication, but too freely for his health and character. He does not look like himself now."

Mrs. Williams bowed down her head and wept bitterly, while Beulah continued sorrowfully:

"His adoption was his ruin. Had he remained dependent on his individual exertions he would have grown up an honor to himself and his friends. But Mr. Graham is considered very wealthy, and Eugene weakly desisted from the honest labor which was his duty. His fashionable associates have ruined him. In Europe he learned to drink, and here his companions dragged him constantly into scenes of dissipation. But I do not despair of him yet. It may be long before he awakens from this infatuation; but I trust he will yet reform. I cannot bear to think of him as a confirmed drunkard! Oh, no! no! I may be wrong, but I still hope that his nobler nature will conquer."

"God help the boy! I have prayed for him for years, and I shall pray for him still, though he has forgotten me."

She sobbed, and covered her face with her apron. A joyless smile flitted over Beulah's fixed, grave features, as she said encouragingly:

"He will come to see you when he returns from the North. He has not forgotten you—that is impossible. Like me, he owes you too much."

"I shall leave here very soon," said Mrs. Williams, wiping her eyes.

"Leave the asylum! for what?"

"I am getting old, child, and my health is none of the best. The duties are very heavy here, and I am not willing to occupy the position unless I could discharge all the duties faithfully. I have sent in my resignation to the managers, and as soon as they succeed in getting another matron, I shall leave the asylum. I am sorry to be obliged to go; I have been here so long that I am very much attached to the place and the children. But I am not able to do what I have done, and I know it is right that I should give up the position."

"What are you going to do?"

"I have means enough to live plainly the remainder of my life. I intend to rent or buy a small house, and settle down and be quiet. I feel now as if I should like to spend my days in peace."

"Do you intend to live alone?"

"Yes, child; except a servant, I suppose I shall be quite alone. But you will come to see me often, and perhaps Eugene will remember me some day, when he is in trouble."

"No, I shall not come to see you at all! I mean to come and live with you—that is, if I may?" cried Beulah, springing up and laying her hand on the matron's.

"God bless you, dear child; how glad I shall be!" She wound her arms round the slender form, and laughed through her tears.

Beulah gently put back the gray locks that had fallen from the border of her cap, and said hopefully:

"I am sick of boarding—sick of town! Let us get a nice little house, where I can walk in and out to my school. Have you selected any particular place?"

"No. I have looked at two or three, but none suited me exactly. Now you can help me. I am so thankful you are going to be with me! Will you come as soon as I can be released here?"

"Yes; just as soon as you are ready for me; and I think I know a house for rent which will just suit us. Now I want it understood that I am to pay the rent."

"Oh, no, child! I won't hear to it, for I am—"

"Very well, then; I will stay where I am."

"Oh, Beulah! you are not in earnest?"

"Yes, I am; so say no more about it. I will come on no other condition. I will see the owner of the house, ascertain what I can obtain it for, and send you word. Then you can look at it and decide."

"I am quite willing to trust it to you, child; only I can't bear the thought of your paying the rent for it. But we can arrange that afterward."

"No; you must be perfectly satisfied with the house. I will go by this evening and find out about it, so as to let you know at once. Have you any idea when the 'board' will procure another matron?"

"They have advertised, and several persons applied, I believe, but they were not exactly pleased with the applicants. I suppose, however, that in a few days they will find a substitute for me."

"Well, be sure you get a good servant; and now I must go."

She put on her bonnet and shawl with unwonted haste, and ran down the steps. In her frequent walks she had noticed two cottages in course of erection, not very far from the pine grove in front of the asylum, and now, crossing the common, she directed her steps toward them. The lots were small, and belonged to Dr. Asbury, who said he would build a couple of cottages for poor families to rent at cheap rates. As Beulah approached the houses she saw the doctor's buggy standing near the door, and, thinking it a good omen, quickened her steps. Each building contained only three rooms and a hall, with a gallery or rather portico in front. They were genuine cottages ornes, built after Downing's plans, and presented a tasteful, inviting appearance. The windows were arched and the woodwork elaborately carved. Beulah pushed open the freshly painted gate, ran up the steps and into the hall. The carpenters were still at work in the kitchen, and, as she conjectured, here she found her friend, giving some final directions. She looked round the snug little kitchen, and, walking up to Dr. Asbury, who stood with his back to the door, she shook his hand with a cheerful salutation.

"Halloo, Beulah! where did you drop from? Glad to see you. Glad to see you. How came you prying into my new houses? Answer me that! Did you see my spouse as you came through the hall?"

"No; I will go back and hunt for her—"

"You need not; there she comes down the steps of the house. She would insist on seeing about some shelves for this precious kitchen; thinks I am bound to put pantries, and closets, and shelves all over the house, for my future tenants. I suppose before the first poor family takes possession I shall be expected to fill the closet with table linen and cutlery, and the larder with sugar, flour, and wax candles. Look here, Mrs. Asbury, how many more shelves is this kitchen to have?"

"It is well she has a conscience, sir, since nature denied you one," answered Beulah, whom Mrs. Asbury received very affectionately.

"Conscience! Bless my soul! she has none, as regards my unlucky purse. Positively she wanted to know, just now, if I would not have that little patch of ground between the house and the paling laid off into beds; and if I would not plant a few rose bushes and vines, for the first rascally set of children to tear up by the roots, just as soon as their parents moved in. There's conscience for you with a vengeance."

"And what did you say, sir?"

"What did I say? Why, just what every other meek husband says to appeals which 'won't cost much, you know.' Of course I had no opinion of my own. Madame, here, is infallible; so I am put down for maybe a hundred dollars more. You need not have asked the result, you true daughter of Eve; every one of you understand wheedling. Those two mischievous imps of mine are almost as great adepts as their mother. Hey, Beulah, no whispering there! You look as wise as an owl. What am I to do next? Paper the walls and fresco the ceilings? Out with it."

"I want to ask, sir, how much rent your conscience will allow you to demand for this pigeon-box of a house?"

"Well, I had an idea of asking two hundred dollars for it. Cheap enough at that. You may have it for two hundred," said he, with a good-humored nod toward Beulah.

"Very well, I will take it at that, provided Mrs. Williams likes it as well as I do. In a day or two I will determine."

"In the name of common sense, Beulah, what freak is this?" said the doctor, looking at her with astonishment.

"I am going to live with the matron of the asylum, whom you know very well. I think this house will suit us exactly, and the rent suits my purse far better than a larger building would. I am tired of boarding. I want a little home of my own, where, when the labors of school are over, I can feel at ease. The walk twice a day will benefit me, I feel assured. You need not look so dismal and perplexed; I will make a capital tenant. Your door-facings shan't be pencil-marked; your windows shan't be broken, nor your gate swung off its hinges. As for those flowers you are so anxious to plant, and that patch of ground you are so much interested in, it shall blossom like the plain of Sharon."

He looked at her wistfully; took off his spectacles, wiped them with the end of his coat, and said dubiously:

"What does Hartwell think of this project?"

"I have not consulted him."

"The plain English of which is that, whether he approves or condemns, you are determined to carry out this new plan? Take care, Beulah; remember the old adage about 'cutting off your nose to spite your face.'"

"Rather malapropos. Dr. Asbury," said she indifferently.

"I am an old man, Beulah, and know something of life and the world."

"Nay, George; why dissuade her from this plan? If she prefers this quiet little home to the cenfinement and bustle of a boarding house, if she thinks she would be happier here with Mrs. Williams than in the heart of the city, why should not she come? Suffer her to judge for herself. I am disposed to applaud her choice," interrupted Mrs. Asbury.

"Alice, do you suppose she will be satisfied to bury herself out here, with an infirm old woman for a companion? Here she must have an early breakfast, trudge through rain and cold into town; teach stupid little brats till evening; then listen to others equally stupid; thrum over music lessons, and, at last, tired out, drag herself back here about dark, when it is too late to see whether her garden is a cotton patch or a peach orchard! Will you please to tell me what enjoyment there is for one of her temperament in such a treadmill existence?"

"Your picture is all shadow. George; and, even if it were not, she is the best judge of what will promote her happiness. Do not discourage her. Ah, humble as the place is, I know how her heart aches for a spot she can call 'home.' These three rooms will be a haven of rest for her when the day is done. My dear Beulah, I trust you may be very happy here, or wherever you decide to live; you deserve to be."

"Thank you, madam, for your friendly sympathy. I am glad you approve my design."

"Well, well; if you soon weary of this freak you can easily give up the house, that is all. Now, Beulah, if you determine to take it, rest assured I will gladly make any additions or alterations you may suggest. I dare say I shall like you for a tenant. But see here, Mrs. Asbury, I have patients to look after. Please to remember that I am a professional character, consequently can call no moment my own. What! another row of shelves round that side? This building houses for rent is a ruinous speculation! Come, it is too late now to go over the rooms again; to-morrow will do as well. Beulah, are you going to play cook, too?"

"No, indeed! Mrs. Williams will find us a servant. Good-by. I will decide about the house as soon as possible."

The following day she dispatched a note to the matron with information concerning the house; and at the close of the week all arrangements were completed, so that they might take possession as soon as a new matron was secured. Thus the last of October glided swiftly away, and one cold, clear day in November Beulah was notified that Mrs. Williams was comfortably settled in the new home. She went to school as usual, and when the recitations were ended, started out with a glad heart and springing step. In half an hour she reached the little white gate, and found Mrs. Williams waiting there to welcome her. Everything was new and neat; the tastefully selected carpets were not tapestry, but cheap ingrain; the snowy curtains were of plain dimity, with rose-colored borders, and the tea table held, instead of costly Sevres, simple white china, with a band of gilt. A bright fire crackled and glowed in the chimney, and, as Beulah stood on the hearth and glanced round the comfortable little room, which was to be both parlor and dining room, she felt her heart thrill with delight, and exclaimed:

"This is home! at last I feel that I have a home of my own. Not the
Rothschilds, in their palaces, are so happy as I!"

For years she had been a wanderer, with no hearthstone, and now, for the first time since her father's death she was at home. Not the home of adoption; nor the cheerless room of a boarding house, but the humble home which labor and rigid economy had earned for her. Her heart bounded with joy; an unwonted glow suffused her cheeks, and her parted lips trembled. The evening passed quickly, and when she retired to her own room she was surprised to find a handsome rosewood bookcase and desk occupying one corner. She opened the glass doors and saw her books carefully arranged on the shelves. Could her guardian have sent it? No; since her refusal of the watch, she felt sure he would not have offered it. A small note lay on the shelf, and, recognizing the delicate handwriting, she read the lines, containing these words:

"BEULAH: Accept the accompanying case and desk as a slight testimony of the affection of

"Your sincere friend,

"ALICE ASBURY."

Tears sprang into her eyes as she opened the desk and discovered an elegant pen and pencil and every convenience connected with writing. Turning away, she saw beside the fire a large, deep easy-chair, cushioned with purple morocco, and knew it was exactly like one she had often seen in Dr. Asbury's library. On the back was pinned a narrow slip of paper, and she read, in the doctor's scrawling, quaint writing:

"Child, don't be too proud to use it."

She was not. Throwing herself into the luxurious chair, she broke the seal of a letter received that day from Pauline Mortimor. Once before, soon after her marriage, a few lines of gay greeting had come, and then many months had elapsed. As she unfolded the sheet she saw, with sorrow, that in several places it was blotted with tears; and the contents, written in a paroxysm of passion, disclosed a state of wretchedness which Beulah little suspected. Pauline's impulsive, fitful nature was clearly indexed in the letter, and, after a brief apology for her long silence, she wrote as follows:

"Oh, Beulah, I am so miserable; so very, very wretched Beulah, Ernest does not love me! You will scarcely believe me, Oh, I hardly know how to believe it myself! Uncle Guy was right; I do not suit Ernest. But I loved him so very, very dearly, and thought him so devoted to me. Fool that I was! my eyes are opened at last. Beulah, it nearly drives me wild to think that I am bound to him for life, an unloved wife. Not a year has passed since our marriage, yet already he has tired of my 'pretty face.' Oh, Beulah, if I could only come to you, and put my arms round your neck, and lay my poor, weary head down on your shoulder, then I could tell you all—"

[Here several sentences were illegible from tears, and she could only read what followed.]

"Since yesterday morning Ernest has not spoken to me. While I write he is sitting in the next room, reading, as cold, indifferent, and calm as if I were not perfectly wretched. He is tyrannical; and because I do not humor all his whims, and have some will of my own, he treats me with insulting indifference. He is angry now because I resented some of his father's impertinent speeches about my dress. This is not the first nor the second time that we have quarreled. He has an old-maid sister who is forever meddling about my affairs and sneering at my domestic arrangements; and because I finally told her I believed I was mistress of my own house Ernest has never forgiven me. Ellen (the sister I loved and went to school with) has married and moved to a distant part of the State. The other members of his family are bigoted, proud, and parsimonious, and they have chiefly made the breach between us. Oh, Beulah, if I could only undo the past, and be Pauline Chilton once more! Oh, if I could be free and happy again! But there is no prospect of that. I am his wife, as he told me yesterday, and suppose I must drag out a miserable existence. Yet I will not be trampled on by his family! His sister spends much of her time with us; reads to Ernest, talks to him about things that she glories in telling me I don't understand the first word of. Beulah, I was anxious to study and make myself a companion for him; but, try as I may, Lucy contrives always to fret and thwart me. Two days ago she nearly drove me beside myself with her sneers and allusions to my great mental inferiority to Ernest (as if I were not often enough painfully reminded of the fact without any of her assistance!). I know I should not have said it, but I was too angry to think of propriety, and told her that her presence in my home was very disagreeable. Oh, if you could have seen her insulting smile, as she answered that her 'noble brother needed her, and she felt it a duty to remain with him.' Beulah, I love my husband; I would do anything on earth to make him happy if we were left to ourselves, but as to submitting to Lucy's arrogance and sneers, I will not! Ernest requires me to apologize to his father and sister, and I told him I would not! I would die first! He does not love me or he would shield me from such trials. He thinks his sister is perfection, and I tell you I do absolutely detest her. Now, Beulah, there is no one else to whom I would mention my unhappiness. Mother does not suspect it, and never shall, even when she visits me. Uncle Guy predicted it, and I would not have him know it for the universe. But I can trust you; I feel that you will sympathize with me, and I want you to counsel me. Oh, tell me what I ought to do to rid myself of this tormenting sister-in-law and father-in-law, and, I may say, all Ernest's kin. Sometimes, when I think of the future, I absolutely shudder; for if matters go on this way much longer I shall learn to hate my husband too. He knew my disposition before he married me, and has no right to treat me as he does. If it were only Ernest I could bring myself to 'obey' him, for I love him very devotedly; but as to being dictated to by all his relatives, I never will! Beulah, burn this blurred letter; don't let anybody know how drearily I am situated. I am too proud to have my misery published. To know that people pitied me would kill me. I never can be happy again, but perhaps you can help me to be less miserable. Do write to me! Oh, how I wish you could come to me! I charge you, Beulah, don't let Uncle Guy know that I am not happy. Good-by. Oh, if ever you marry, be sure your husband has no old-maid sisters and no officious kin! I am crying so that I can barely see the lines. Good-by, dear Beulah."

"PAULINE."

Beulah leaned forward and dropped the letter into the glowing mass of coals. It shriveled, blazed, and vanished, and, with a heavy sigh, she sat pondering the painful contents. What advice could she possibly give that would remedy the trouble? She was aware that the young wife must indeed have been "very wretched" before she could consent to disclose her domestic feuds to another. Under happier auspices she felt that Pauline would have made a devoted, gentle wife, but feared it was now too late to mold her character in conformity with her husband's wishes. "So much for a union of uncongenial natures," thought Beulah, as she prepared to answer the unlucky letter. As guardedly as possible she alluded to Mr. Mortimor and his family, and urged Pauline to talk to her husband gently but firmly, and assure him that the continued interference of his family was unendurable. If her remonstrances proved futile, to do what she considered due to herself as mistress of her own establishment, and try not to notice the annoyances of others. Beulah felt and acknowledged her inability to advise the young wife in the difficult position in which she was placed, and closed by assuring her that only her own good sense, guided by sincere love for her husband, could rightly direct her course. She was warmly attached to Pauline, and it was with a troubled heart that she addressed her reply.