In the early days of summer Mr. and Mrs. Graham left the city for one of the fashionable watering-places on the Gulf, accompanied by Antoinette. Eugene remained, on some pretext of business, but promised to follow in a short time. The week subsequent to their departure saw a party of gentlemen assembled to dine at his house. The long afternoon wore away; still they sat round the table. The cloth had been removed, and only wine and cigars remained; bottle after bottle was emptied, and finally decanters were in requisition. The servants shrugged their shoulders, and looked on with amused expectancy. The conversation grew loud and boisterous, now and then flavored with oaths; twilight came on—the shutters were closed—the magnificent chandelier lighted. Eugene seized a crystal ice bowl, and was about to extract a lump of ice when it fell from his fingers and shivered to atoms. A roar of laughter succeeded the exploit, and, uncorking a fresh bottle of champagne, he demanded a song. Already a few of the guests were leaning on the table stupefied, but several began the strain. It was a genuine Bacchanalian ode, and the deafening shout rose to the frescoed ceiling as the revelers leaned forward and touched their glasses. Touched, did I say; it were better written clashed. There was a ringing chorus as crystal met crystal; glittering fragments flew in every direction; down ran the foaming wine, thick with splintered glass, on the rosewood table. But the strain was kept up; fresh glasses were supplied; fresh bottles drained; the waiters looked on, wondered where all this would end, and pointed to the ruin of the costly service. The brilliant gaslight shone on a scene of recklessness pitiable indeed. All were young men, and, except Eugene, all unmarried; but they seemed familiar with such occasions. One or two, thoroughly intoxicated, lay with their heads on the table, unconscious of what passed; others struggled to sit upright, yet the shout was still raised from time to time.

"Fill up, and let us have that glorious song from Lucrezia Borgia.
Hey, Proctor!" cried Eugene.

"That is poor fun without Vincent. He sings it equal to Vestvali.
Fill up there, Munroe, and shake up Cowdon. Come, begin, and—"

He raised his glass with a disgusting oath, and was about to commence, when Munroe said stammeringly:

"Where is Fred, anyhow? He is a devilish fine fellow for a frolic.
I—"

"Why, gone to the coast with Graham's pretty wife. He is all devotion. They waltz and ride, and, in fine, he is her admirer par excellence. Stop your stupid stammering, and begin."

Eugene half rose at this insulting mention of his wife's name, but the song was now ringing around him, and, sinking back, he, too, raised his unsteady voice. Again and again the words were madly shouted; and then, dashing his empty glass against the marble mantel, Proctor swore he would not drink another drop. What a picture of degradation! Disordered hair, soiled clothes, flushed, burning cheeks, glaring eyes, and nerveless hands. Eugene attempted to rise, but fell back in his chair, tearing off his cravat, which seemed to suffocate him. Proctor, who was too thoroughly inured to such excesses to feel it as sensibly as the remainder of the party, laughed brutally, and, kicking over a chair which stood in his way, grasped his host by the arm, and exclaimed:

"Come out of this confounded room; it is as hot as a furnace; and let us have a ride to cool us. Come. Munroe and Cowdon must look after the others. By Jove, Graham, old father Bacchus himself could not find fault with your cellar. Come."

Each took a cigar from the stand and descended to the front door, where a light buggy was waiting the conclusion of the revel. It was a cloudless July night, and the full moon poured a flood of silver light over the silent earth. Proctor assisted Eugene into the buggy, and, gathering up the reins, seized the whip, gave a flourish and shout, and off sprang the spirited horse, which the groom could with difficulty hold until the riders were seated.

"Now, Graham, I will bet a couple of baskets of Heidseick that my royal Telegraph will make the first mile post in 2.30. What say you?"

"Done; 2.40 is the lowest."

"Phew! Telegraph, my jewel, show what manner of flesh you are made of. Now, then, out with your watch."

He shook the reins and the horse rushed forward like an arrow. Before the mile post was reached it became evident that Telegraph had taken the game entirely out of his master's hands. In vain the reins were tightened. Proctor leaned so far back that his hat fell off. Still the frantic horse sped on. The mile post flashed by, but Eugene could barely sit erect, much less note the time. At this stage of the proceedings, the whir of wheels behind gave a new impetus to Telegraph's flying feet. They were near a point in the road where an alley led off at right angles, and thinking, doubtless, that it was time to retrace his steps, the horse dashed down the alley, heedless of Proctor's efforts to restrain him, and, turning into a neighboring street, rushed back toward the city. Bareheaded, and with heavy drops of perspiration streaming from his face, Proctor cursed, and jerked, and drew the useless reins. On went Telegraph, making good his title, now swerving to this side of the road and now to that; but as he approached a mass of bricks which were piled on one side of the street, near the foundations of a new building, the moonlight flashed upon a piece of tin in the sand on the opposite side, and, frightened by the glitter, he plunged toward the bricks. The wheels struck, the buggy tilted, then came down again with a terrible jolt, and Eugene was thrown out on the pile. Proctor was jerked over the dashboard, dragged some distance, and finally left in the sand, while Telegraph ran on to the stable.

It was eleven o'clock, but Beulah was writing in her own room; and through the open window heard the thundering tramp, the rattle among the bricks, Proctor's furious curses, and surmised that some accident had happened. She sprang to the window, saw the buggy just as it was wheeled on, and hoped nothing was hurt. But Charon, who slept on the portico, leaped over the paling, ran around the bricks, and barked alarmingly. She unlocked the door, saw that no one was passing, and, opening the little gate, looked out. Charon stood watching a prostrate form, and she fearlessly crossed the street and bent over the body. One arm was crushed beneath him; the other thrown up over the face. She recognized the watch chain, which was of a curious pattern; and, for an instant, all objects swam before her. She felt faint; her heart seemed to grow icy and numb; but, with a great effort, she moved the arm, and looked on the face gleaming in the moonlight. Trembling like a weed in a wintry blast, she knelt beside him. He was insensible, but not dead; though it was evident there must have been some severe contusion about the head. She saw that no time should be lost, and, running into one of the neighboring houses, knocked violently. The noise of the horse and buggy had already aroused the inmates, and very soon the motionless form was borne into Beulah's little cottage and placed on a couch, while a messenger was dispatched for Dr. Asbury. Eugene remained just as they placed him; and, kneeling beside him, Beulah held his cold hands in hers, and watched, in almost breathless anxiety, for some return of animation. She knew that he was intoxicated; that this, and this only, caused the accident; and tears of shame and commiseration trickled down her cheeks. Since their parting interview, previous to his marriage, they had met but once, and then in silence, beside Cornelia in her dying hour. It was little more than a year since she had risked his displeasure, and remonstrated with him on his ruinous course; and that comparatively short period had wrought painful changes in his once noble, handsome face. She had hoped that Cornelia's dying prayer would save him; but now, alas, it was too apparent that the appeal had been futile. She knew not that his wife was absent, and determined to send for her as soon as possible. The long hour of waiting seemed an eternity; but at last Dr. Asbury came, and carefully examined the bruised limbs. Beulah grasped his arm.

"Oh! will he die?"

"I don't know, child; this arm is badly fractured, and I am afraid there is a severe injury on the back of the head. It won't do to move him home, so send Hal in from my buggy to help put him in bed. Have me some bandages at once, Beulah."

As they carried him into Mrs. Williams' room and prepared to set the fractured arm, he groaned, and for a moment struggled, then relapsed into a heavy stupor. Dr. Asbury carefully straightened and bandaged the limb, and washed the blood from his temples, where a gash had been inflicted in the fall.

"Will you go to his wife at once, sir, and inform her of his condition?" said Beulah, who stood by the blood-stained pillow, pale and anxious.

"Don't you know his wife is not here? She has gone for the summer. Wife! did I say? She does not deserve the sacred name! If he had had a wife he would never have come to this ruin and disgrace. It is nothing more than I expected when he married her. I could easily put her soul on the end of a lancet, and as for heart—she has none at all! She is a pretty flirt, fonder of admiration than of her husband. I will write by the earliest mail, informing Graham of the accident and its possible consequences, and perhaps respect for the opinion of the world may bring her home to him. Beulah, it is a difficult matter to believe that that drunken, stupid victim there is Eugene Graham, who promised to become an honor to his friends and his name. Satan must have established the first distillery; the institution smacks of the infernal! Child, keep ice upon that head, will you, and see that as soon as possible he takes a spoonful of the medicine I mixed just now. I am afraid it will be many days before he leaves this house. If he lives, the only consolation is that it may be a lesson and warning to him. I will be back in an hour or so. As for Proctor, whom I met limping home, it would have been a blessing to the other young men of the city, and to society generally, if he had never crawled out of the sand where he was thrown."

A little while after the silence was broken by a heavy sob, and, glancing up, Beulah perceived the matron standing near the bed, gazing at the sleeper.

"Oh, that he should come to this! I would ten thousand times rather he had died in his unstained boyhood."

"If he lives, this accident may be his salvation."

"God grant it may—God grant it may!"

Falling on her knees, the aged woman put up a prayer of passionate entreaty, that Almighty God would spare his life and save him from a drunkard's fate.

"If I, too, could pray for him, it might ease my aching heart," thought Beulah, as she listened to the imploring words of the matron.

And why not? Ah! the murky vapors of unbelief shrouded the All- Father from her wandering soul. Dawn looked in upon two sorrowing watchers beside that stupid slumberer, and showed that the physician's fears were realized; a raging fever had set in, and this night was but the commencement of long and weary vigils. About noon Beulah was crossing the hall with a bowl of ice in her hand, when someone at the door pronounced her name, and Proctor approached her, accompanied by Cowdon. She had once met the former at Mr. Graham's, and, having heard Cornelia regret the miserable influence he exerted over her brother, was prepared to receive him coldly.

"We have come to see Graham, madam," said he, shrinking from her sad, searching eyes, yet assuming an air of haughty indifference.

"You cannot see him, sir."

"But I tell you I must! I shall remove him to his own house, where he can be properly attended to. Where is he?"

"The physician particularly urged the necessity of keeping everything quiet. He shall not be disturbed; but, as he is unconscious, perhaps it will afford you some gratification to behold the ruin you have wrought. Gentlemen, here is your victim."

She opened the door and suffered them to stand on the threshold and look at the prostrate form, with the head enveloped in icy cloths and the face bloated and purplish from bruises and fever. Neither Proctor nor his companion could endure the smile of withering contempt which curled her lips as she pointed to the victim of their temptations and influence, and, with a half-suppressed imprecation, Proctor turned on his heel and left the house. Apparently this brief visit quite satisfied them, for it was not repeated. Days and nights of unremitted watching ensued; Eugene was wildly delirious, now singing snatches of drinking songs, and waving his hand, as if to his guests; and now bitterly upbraiding his wife for her heartlessness and folly. The confinement of his fractured arm frenzied him; often he struggled violently to free himself, fancying that he was incarcerated in some horrid dungeon. On the morning of the fourth day after the accident a carriage stopped at the cottage gate, and, springing out, Mr. Graham hurried into the house. As he entered the sickroom and caught sight of the tossing sufferer, a groan escaped him, and he covered his eyes an instant, as if to shut out the vision. Eugene imagined he saw one of the Heidelberg professors, and, laughing immoderately, began a rapid conversation in German. Mr. Graham could not conceal his emotion, and, fearing its effect on the excitable patient, Beulah beckoned him aside and warned him of the possible consequences. He grasped her hand, and asked the particulars of the occurrence, which had been mentioned to him vaguely. She told him the account given by Eugene's servants of the night's revel, and then the denouement in front of her door. In conclusion she said earnestly:

"Where is his wife? Why is she not here?"

"She seemed to think she could render no assistance; and, fearing that all would be over before we could get here, preferred my coming at once and writing to her of his condition. Ah! she is miserably fitted for such scenes as you must have witnessed." And the gray- haired man sighed heavily.

"What! can she bear to commit her husband to other hands at such a crisis as this? How can she live away from his side when every hour may be his last? Oh, is she indeed so utterly, utterly heartless, selfish, callous? Poor Eugene! Better find release from such a union in death than go through life bound to a wife so unblushingly indifferent!"

Her face was one flash of scorn and indignation, and, extending her hand toward the restless invalid, she continued in a lower tone:

"She has deserted her sacred post; but a truer, better friend, one who has always loved him as a brother, will supply her place. All that a sister's care can do, assuredly he shall have."

"You are very kind, Miss Beulah; my family are under lasting obligations to you for your generous attentions to that poor boy of ours, and I—"

"No. You understand little of the nature of our friendship. We were orphan children, warmly attached to each other, before you took him to a home of wealth and lavish indulgence. Were he my own brother, I could not feel more deeply interested in his welfare, and while he requires care and nursing I consider it my privilege to watch over and guard him. There is Dr. Asbury in the hall; he can tell you better than I of his probable recovery,"

Ah, reader, is

"Friendship but a name?
A charm that lulls to Bleep,
A shade that follows wealth or fame,
And leaves the wretch to weep?"

Mr. Graham remained at the cottage, and, having written to Antoinette of the imminent danger in which he found her husband, urged her to lose no time in joining him. Unluckily, he was ignorant of all the information which is so essential in the occupation of nursing. He was anxious to do everything in his power; but, like the majority of persons on such occasions, failed wretchedly in his attempts. Almost as restless and nervous as the sick man, he only increased the difficulties he would fain have remedied, and Beulah finally prevailed upon him to abandon his efforts and leave the room, where his constant movements annoyed and irritated the sufferer. Eugene recognized no one, but his eyes followed Beulah continually; and when his delirium was at its height only her voice and clasp of his hand could in any degree soothe him. In his ravings she noticed two constantly conflicting emotions: a stern bitterness of feeling toward his wife and an almost adoring fondness for his infant child. Of the latter he talked incessantly, and vowed that she, at least, should love him. As the weary days crept by Beulah started at every sound, fancying that the wife had certainly come; but hour after hour found only Mrs. Williams and the orphan guarding the deserted husband. Gradually the fever abated, and a death-like stupor succeeded. Mr. Graham stole about the house like a haunting spirit, miserable and useless, and in the solemn stillness of midnight only Beulah sat by the pillow, where a head now rested motionless as that of a corpse. Mrs. Williams was asleep on a couch at the opposite end of the room, and, in the dim, spectral light of the shaded lamp, the watcher and her charge looked unearthly. Faint from constant vigils, Beulah threw her arm on the bed and leaned her head upon it, keeping her eyes on the colorless face before her. Who that has watched over friends, hovering upon the borders of the spiritland, needs to be told how dreary was the heart of the solitary nurse? And to those who have not thus suffered and endured, no description would adequately portray the desolation and gloom.

The stars were waning, when Eugene moved, threw up his hand over the pillow, and, after a moment, opened his eyes. Beulah leaned forward, and he looked at her fixedly, as if puzzled; then said feebly:

"Beulah, is it you?"

A cry of joy rolled to her lips; but she hushed it, and answered tremblingly:

"Yes, Eugene; it is Beulah."

His eyes wandered about the room, and then rested again on her countenance, with a confused, perplexed expression.

"Am I at home? What is the matter?"

"Yes, Eugene; at home among your best friends. Don't talk any more; try to sleep again." With a great joy in her heart she extinguished the light, so that he could see nothing. After a few moments he said slowly:

"Beulah, did I dream I saw you? Beulah!" She felt his hand put out, as if to feel for her.

"No; I am sitting by you, but will not talk to you now. You must keep quiet."

There was a short silence.

"But where am I? Not at home, I know."

She did not reply, and he repeated the question more earnestly.

"You are in my house, Eugene; let that satisfy you."

His fingers closed over hers tightly, and soon he slept.

The sun was high in the sky when he again unclosed his eyes and found Dr. Asbury feeling his pulse. His mind was still bewildered, and he looked around him wonderingly.

"How do you feel, Graham?" said the doctor.

"Feel! as if I had been standing on my head. What is the matter with me, doctor? Have I been sick?"

"Well—yes; you have not been exactly well, and feel stupid after a long nap. Take a spoonful of this nectar I have prepared for you. No wry faces, man! It will clear your head."

Eugene attempted to raise himself, but fell back exhausted, while, for the first time, he noticed his arm firmly incased in wood and bandages.

"What have you been doing to my arm? Why, I can't move it. I should- -"

"Oh, don't trouble yourself, Graham; you injured it, and I bound it up, that is all. When gentlemen amuse themselves with such gymnastic feats as you performed, they must expect a little temporary inconvenience from crushed bones and overstrained muscles. Beulah, mind my directions about silence and quiet."

The doctor walked out to escape further questioning. Eugene looked at his useless, stiffened arm and then at Beulah, saying anxiously:

"What is the matter with me?"

"You were thrown out of a buggy and fractured your arm in the fall."

She thought it best to tell the truth at once.

Memory flew back to her deserted throne, and dimly the events of that evening's revel passed through his mind. A flush of shame rose to his temples, and, turning his head toward the wall, he hid his face in the pillow. Then Beulah heard a deep, shuddering sigh and a groan of remorseful agony. After a long silence, he said, in a tone of humiliation that drew tears to her eyes:

"How long have I been here?"

She told him the number of days, and he immediately asked,

"Have I been in any danger?"

"Yes; very great danger; out that has all passed now, and if you will only be composed and careful you will soon be strong again."

"I heard my father talking to you. Who else is here?"

He looked at her with eager interest.

"No one else, except our kind matron. Mr. Graham came as soon as the letter reached him, and has not left the house since."

A look of indescribable sorrow and shame swept over his countenance as he continued bitterly:

"And did Antoinette know all at once? Stop, Beulah; tell me the miserable truth. Did she know all and still remain away?"

"She knew all that had been communicated to Mr. Graham when he came; and he has written to her every day. He is now writing to inform her that you are better."

She shrank from giving the pain she was conscious her words inflicted.

"I deserve it all! Yes, ingratitude, indifference, and desertion! If I had died she would have heard it unmoved. Oh, Cornelia, Cornelia, it is a fearful retribution; more bitter than death!" Averting his face, his whole frame trembled with ill-concealed emotion.

"Eugene, you must compose yourself. Remember you jeopardize your life by this sort of excitement."

"Why didn't you let me die? What have I to live for? A name disgraced and a wife unloving and heartless! What has the future but wretchedness and shame?"

"Not unless you will it so. You should want to live to retrieve your character, to take an honorable position, which, hitherto, you have recklessly forfeited; to make the world respect you, your wife revere you, and your child feel that she may be proud of her father! Ah, Eugene, all this the future calls you to do."

He looked up at her as she stood beside him, pale, thin, and weary, and his feeble voice faltered, as he asked:

"Beulah, my best friend, my sister, do you quite despise me?"

She laid her hands softly on his, and, stooping down, pressed her lips to his forehead.

"Eugene, once I feared that you had fallen even below my pity; but now I believe you will redeem yourself. I hope that, thoroughly reformed, you will command the respect of all who know you and realize the proud aspirations I once indulged for you. That you can do this I feel assured; that you will, I do most sincerely trust. I have not yet lost faith in you, Eugene. I hope still."

She left him to ponder in solitude the humiliating result of his course of dissipation.