"I wish Hartwell would come home and attend to his business," muttered Dr. Asbury, some weeks later; and, as he spoke, he threw his feet impatiently over the fender of the grate, looking discontented enough.

"He will come, sir; he will come," answered Beulah, who sat near him.

"How do you know that so well, child? Why do you suppose he will come?" asked the doctor, knitting his bushy gray eyebrows.

"Perhaps, because I wish it so very much; and hope and faith are nearly allied, you know; and perhaps more than this—because I have prayed so long for his return."

She sat with her hands folded, looking quietly into the glowing grate. The old man watched her a moment, as the firelight glared over her grave, composed face, and tears came suddenly into his eyes.

"When Harry Hartwell died (about eighteen months since) he left his share of the estate to Guy. It is one of the finest plantations in the State, and for the last three years the crops have been remarkably good. The cotton has been sold regularly, and the bulk of the money is still in the hands of the factor. Yesterday I happened to pass the old house, and rode in to see how things looked; positively, child, you would scarcely recognize the place. You know the Farleys only occupied it a few months; since that time it has been rented. Just now it is vacant, and such a deserted-looking tenement I have not seen for many days. As far as I am concerned—"

Here a servant entered to inform the doctor that he was wanted immediately to see one of his patients. He kicked off his slippers, and got up, grumbling:

"A plague on Guy's peregrinating proclivities! I am getting too old to jump up every three seconds, to keep somebody's baby from jerking itself into a spasm or suffocating with the croup. Hartwell ought to be here to take all this practice off my hands."

He put on his overcoat and went out.

Beulah sat quite still for some minutes after his departure; then, glancing at the clock, she started up suddenly.

"Where are you going, my dear?" said Mrs. Asbury, looking up from a letter she was writing to Helen.

"To walk."

"But Mr. Leonard is coming here this afternoon to see you; he requested me to tell you so."

"I don't want to see him."

"But, my dear, he has already called several times recently without seeing you."

"And if he had any penetration he might perceive that the avoidance was intended. I am tired of his frequent visits and endless harangues, and he might see it if he chose." She looked rather impatient.

Mrs. Asbury had sealed her letter, and, approaching the rug where Beulah stood, she laid her soft hand on her shoulder, and said gently:

"My dear child, do not think me officious, or prompted by mere idle curiosity, if I ask, Do you intend to reject him?"

"Why, ma'am, I have rejected him once, and still he forces his society upon me. As to staying at home to see him, I won't do it."

Mrs. Asbury seemed surprised, and said smilingly:

"Upon my word, Beulah, you seem fastidious, indeed. What possible objection could you find to Hugh Leonard? Why, my dear, he is the best match in the city."

"I would about as soon think of marrying the doctor's armchair, there."

Beulah went to her own room and put on her bonnet and cloak. Charon very rarely attended her in her rambles; he had grown old, and was easily fatigued; but this afternoon she called to him, and they set out. It was a mild, sunny evening for winter, and she took the street leading to her guardian's old residence. A quick walk soon brought her into the suburbs, and ere long she stood before the entrance. The great central gate was chained, but the little side gate was completely broken from its hinges, and lay on the ground. Alas! this was but the beginning. As she entered she saw, with dismay, that the yard was full of stray cattle. Cows, sheep, goats browsed about undisturbed among the shrubbery which her guardian had tended so carefully. She had not been here since he sold it; but even Charon saw that something was strangely amiss. He bounded off, and soon cleared the inclosure of the herd which had become accustomed to grazing here. Beulah walked slowly up the avenue; the aged cedars whispered hoarsely above her as she passed, and the towering poplars, whose ceaseless silvery rustle had an indescribable charm for her in summers past, now tossed their bare boughs toward her in mute complaining of the desolation which surrounded them. The reckless indifference of tenants has deservedly grown into a proverb, and here Beulah beheld an exemplification of its truth. Of all the choice shrubbery which it had been the labor of years to collect and foster; not a particle remained. Hoses, creepers, bulbs—all were destroyed, and only the trees and hedges were spared. The very outline of the beds was effaced in many places, and, walking round the paved circle in front of the door, she paused abruptly at the desolation which greeted her. Here was the marble basin of the fountain half filled with rubbish, as though it had been converted into a receptacle for trash, and over the whole front of the house the dark glossy leaves of the creeping ivy clung in thick masses. She looked around on all sides, but only ruin and neglect confronted her. She remembered the last time she came here, and recalled the beautiful Sunday morning when she saw her guardian standing by the fountain, feeding his pigeons. Ah, how sadly changed! She burst into tears, and sat down on the steps. Charon ran about the yard for some time; then came back, looked up at the somber house, howled, and lay down at her feet. Where was the old master? Wandering among Eastern pagodas, while his home became a retreat for owls.

"He has forgotten us, Charon! He has forgotten his two best friends- -you and I—who love him so well! Oh, Charon, he has forgotten us!" cried she, almost despairingly. Charon gave a melancholy groan of assent, and nestled closer to her. Five years had gone since he left his native land, and, for once, her faith was faint and wavering. But, after some moments, she looked up at the calm sky arching above her, and, wiping away her tears, added resignedly:

"But he will come! God will bring him home when he sees fit! I can wait! I can wait!"

Charon's great, gleaming black eyes met hers wistfully; he seemed dubious of his master's return. Beulah rose, and he obeyed the signal.

"Come, Charon, it is getting late; but we will come back some day, and live here."

It was dusk when she entered the library and found Mrs. Asbury discussing the political questions of the day with her husband. She had just finished reading aloud one of Reginald's Congressional speeches, and advocated it warmly, while the doctor reprobated some portion of his course.

"You have had a long walk," said Mrs. Asbury, looking up as the orphan entered.

"And look, for the universe, as if you had been ghost-seeing," cried the doctor, wiping his spectacles.

"I would rather meet an army of ghosts than see what I have seen!" answered Beulah.

"Good Heavens! In the name of wonder, what have you seen, child? A rattlesnake or a screech-owl?"

He put his broad palms on his knees, and looked mockingly curious and startled.

"I have been out to see the old place, sir; found the gate broken down, the front yard full of cows, and everything going to destruction, except the trees and hedges. Sir, it makes me feel very sad. I can't bear to have things go on this way any longer. It must be rectified."

"Bless my soul, that is easier said than done! The place is a perfect owl-roost, there is no denying that; but it is no business of ours. If Farley or his agent suffers the property to go to ruin, it is his loss."

"But I love the place. I want to save it. Won't you buy it, Dr.
Asbury?"

"Won't I buy it? Why, what on earth do you suppose I should do with it? I don't want to live in it; and, as for any more investments in real estate, why, just excuse me, if you please! Insurance and repairs eat up all the profits, and I am plagued to death with petitions in the bargain."

"Then I must buy it myself!" said Beulah resolutely.

"In the name of common sense, tell me what you will do with it?"

"I don't know yet; keep it, I suppose, until he comes home again.
How much do you suppose the Farleys ask for it?"

"I really cannot conjecture. But, child, you must not think of this. I will see the agent about it, and perhaps I may purchase it, to oblige you. I will not hear of your buying it. Guy certainly cannot contemplate heathenating much longer. There is that eternal door- bell again! Somebody that believes I am constructed of wire and gutta-percha, I dare say."

He leaned back, and watched the door very uneasily. A servant looked in.

"Mr. Leonard, to see Miss Beulah."

"Thank Heaven, it is nobody to see me!" The doctor settled himself comfortably, and laughed at the perturbed expression of Beulah's countenance.

"Ask him to excuse me this evening," said she, without rising.

"Nay, my dear; he was here this afternoon, and you had gone to walk. It would be rude not to see him. Go into the parlor; do, my dear; perhaps he will not detain you long," remonstrated Mrs. Asbury.

Beulah said nothing; she set her lips firmly, rose, and went to the parlor.

"I will wager my head he won't stay fifteen minutes, after he gets a glimpse of her face. Hugh ought to have sense enough to see that she does not fancy him," said the doctor, laughing.

"I should very much like to see the man she would fancy," answered his wife, knitting away busily on a purse for some sewing society.

"Oh, Alice! do you wonder she does not like Hugh Leonard? He is a 'catch,' as far as position, and money, and a certain sort of talent, and is very clever, and upright, I know; but he does not suit Beulah. If she would not marry Reginald, of course she won't marry Hugh."

Jangle! went the door bell once more, and this time the doctor was forced to leave his chair and slippers.

The winter had been very gay, and, without doubt, the belle of the season was Claudia Grayson. She had grown up a brilliant, imperious beauty. Petted most injudiciously by Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, the best elements of her character, instead of being fostered and developed, were smothered beneath vanity and arrogance; and soon selfishness became the dominant characteristic. To those whom she considered her inferiors she was supercilious and overbearing; while, even in her adopted home, she tyrannized over both servants and parents. Flattered and sought after in society, she was never happy unless the center of a gay circle. Ere long she discovered the heartlessness of her admirers; learned the malice and envy of the very people she visited most intimately; and once acquainted with their natures and habits, she found her greatest amusement in ridiculing those who did precisely the same thing the moment she left them. Beulah had never been able to conquer her feelings sufficiently to enter Mrs. Grayson's house; but she had met Claudia several times. The latter, when accompanied by any of her fashionable acquaintances, always shrank from recognizing her; and finally, thinking any allusion to former years, and the asylum, a personal insult, she passed her without even a bow. The first time this occurred Beulah was deeply wounded; she had loved Claudia very warmly, and her superciliousness was hard to bear. But the slight was repeated several times, and she learned to pity her weakness most sincerely.

"Ah!" thought she, "how much better it was that Lilly should die than live to grow up a heartless flirt like Claudy! Much better, little sister! Much better!"

It was the morning after her walk to the old home of her guardian that Dr. Asbury threw down the paper on the breakfast table with an exclamation of horror.

"What is the matter, George?" cried his wife, while Beulah grew deadly pale, and clutched the paper; her mind, like "Hinda's,"

"Still singling ONE from all mankind."

"Matter! Why, poor Grayson has committed suicide—shot himself last night, poor wretch! He has been speculating too freely and lost every cent; and, worse than that, used money to do it that was not his. He made desperate throws and lost all; and the end of it was that, when his operations were discovered, he shot himself, leaving his family utterly destitute. I heard yesterday that they would not have a cent; but never dreamed of his being so weak as to kill himself. Miserable mistake!"

"What will become of Mrs. Grayson and Claudia?" asked Beulah sorrowfully.

"I don't know, really. Mrs. Grayson has a brother living somewhere up the country; I suppose he will offer them a home, such as he has. I pity her. She is a weak creature,—weak, mind and body,—and this reverse will come very near killing her."

For some days nothing was discussed but the "Grayson tragedy." It was well the unhappy man could not listen to the fierce maledictions of disappointed creditors and the slanders which were now heaped upon his name. Whatever his motives might have been, the world called his offenses by the darkest names, and angry creditors vowed every knife, fork, and spoon should come under the hammer. The elegant house was sold—the furniture with it; and Mrs. Grayson and Claudia removed temporarily to a boarding house. Not one of their fashionable intimates approached them—no, not one. When Claudia went one day to her mantuamaker to have her mourning fitted, she met a couple of ladies who had formerly been constant visitors at the house and regular attendants at her parties. Unsuspectingly she hastened to meet them, but, to her astonishment, instead of greeting her in their usual fawning manner, they received her with a very cold bow, just touched the tips of her fingers, and, gathering up their robes, swept majestically from the room. Rage and mortification forced the tears into her eyes.

Mrs. Asbury had never admired Mrs. Grayson's character; she visited her formally about twice a year; but now, in this misfortune, she alone called to see her. When Claudia returned from the mantuamaker's she found Mrs. Asbury with her mother, and received from her hand a kind, friendly note from the girl she had so grossly insulted. Beulah was no flatterer; she wrote candidly and plainly; said she would have called at once had she supposed her company would be acceptable. She would gladly come and see Claudia whenever she desired to see her, and hoped that the memory of other years would teach her the sincerity of her friendship. Claudia wept bitterly as she read it, and vainly regretted the superciliousness which had alienated one she knew to be noble and trustworthy. She was naturally an impulsive creature, and, without a moment's hesitation, dashed off an answer, all blurred with tears, begging Beulah to overlook her "foolishness" and come to see her.

Accordingly, after school, Beulah went to the house where they were boarding. Claudia met her rather awkwardly, but Beulah kissed her as if nothing had ever occurred to mar their intercourse; and, after some desultory conversation, asked her what they expected to do.

"Heaven only knows! starve, I suppose." She spoke gloomily, and folded her soft white hands over each other, as if the idea of work was something altogether foreign to her mind.

"But, Claudia, I reckon you hardly expect to starve," answered
Beulah, who could not forbear smiling.

"Dear knows what is to become of us—I am sure I don't! Mamma has a brother living in some out-of-the-way place up the country. But he does not like me—thinks some of his own children ought to have been adopted in my place. Heaven knows I have made nothing by the operation but a great disappointment; he need not be uneasy about the amount I am to get. But you see they don't want me, having an old spite at me, and mamma dislikes to ask them to take me; besides, I would almost as soon be buried at once as go to that farm, or plantation, or whatever it is. They have written to mamma to come, and she does not know what to do."

"You are a good musician, are you not?"

"No, not particularly. I never could endure to practice."

"Don't you draw and paint finely? I have heard that you did."

"Yes; but what good will it do me now, I should like to know?" She twirled her little plump, jeweled fingers indolently.

"It might do you a great deal of good, if you chose. You might support yourself by giving lessons," said Beulah decisively.

She drew up her shoulders, frowned, and pouted without making any answer.

"Claudy, you do not wish to be dependent on a man who dislikes you?"

"Not if I can help myself!"

"And you certainly do not wish to be the means of preventing Mrs.
Grayson from having a comfortable home with her brother?"

Claudia burst into tears. She did not love her mother, did not even respect her, she was so very weak and childish; yet the young orphan felt very desolate, and knew not what to do. Beulah took her hand, and said kindly:

"If you are willing to help yourself, dear Claudy, I will gladly do all I can to assist you. I think I can secure you a situation as teacher of drawing, and, until you can make something at it, I will pay your board; and you shall stay with me, if you like. You can think about it, and let me know as soon as you decide." Claudia thanked her cordially, and, returning home, Beulah immediately imparted the plan to her friends. They thought it would scarcely succeed, Claudia had been so petted and spoiled. Beulah sat gazing into the fire for a while; then, looking at the doctor, said abruptly:

"There is that Graham money, sir, doing nobody any good."

"That is just what I have been telling you for the last six years. I have invested it carefully, until it has almost doubled itself."

"It would make them very comfortable," continued she thoughtfully.

"Make them very comfortable!" repeated the doctor, throwing his cigar into the grate, and turning suddenly toward her.

"Yes—Claudia and Mrs. Grayson."

"Beulah Benton! are you going insane, I should like to know? Here you are, working hard every day of your life, and do you suppose I shall suffer you to give that legacy (nearly nine thousand dollars!) to support two broken-down fashionables in idleness? Who ever heard of such a piece of business since the world began? I will not consent to it! I tell you now, the money shall not leave my hands for any such purpose."

"I don't want it myself. I never shall touch a dollar of it for my own use," said she resolutely.

"All very fine now. But wait till you get superannuated, or such a cripple with rheumatism that you can't hobble to that schoolhouse, which you seem to love better than your own soul. Wait till then, I say, and see whether some of this money will not be very acceptable."

"That time will never come, sir; never!" answered Beulah, laughing.

"Beulah Benton, you are a simpleton!" said he, looking affectionately at her from beneath his shaggy brows.

"I want that money, sir."

"You shall not have one cent of it. The idea of your playing Lady
Bountiful to the Graysons! Pshaw! not a picayune shall you have."

"Oh, sir, it would make me so very happy to aid them. You cannot conceive how much pleasure it would afford me."

"Look here, child; all that sort of angelic disinterestedness sounds very well done up in a novel, but the reality is quite another matter. Mrs. Grayson treated you like a brute; and it is not to be expected that you will have any extraordinary degree of affection for her. Human nature is spiteful and unforgiving; and as for your piling coals of fire on her head to the amount of nine thousand dollars, that is being entirely too magnanimous!"

"I want to make Mrs. Grayson amends, sir. Once, when I was maddened by sorrow and pain, I said something which I always repented bitterly." As Beulah spoke, a cloud swept across her face.

"What was it, child? what did you say?"

"I cursed her! besought God to punish her severely for her unkindness to me. I hardly knew what I was saying; but even then it shocked me, and I prayed God to forgive my passion. I shudder when I remember it. I have forgiven her heartlessness long ago; and now, sir, I want you to give me that money. If it is mine at all, it is mine to employ as I choose."

"Cornelia did not leave the legacy to the Graysons."

"Were she living, she would commend the use I am about to make of it. Will you give me five thousand dollars of it?"

"Oh, Beulah, you are a queer compound! a strange being!"

"Will you give me five thousand dollars of that money tomorrow?" persisted Beulah, looking steadily at him.

"Yes, child; if you will have it so." His voice trembled, and he looked at the orphan with moist eyes.

Mrs. Asbury had taken no part in the conversation, but her earnest face attested her interest. Passing her arm around Beulah's waist, she hastily kissed her brow, and only said:

"God bless you, my dear, noble Beulah!"

"I do not see that I am at all magnanimous in giving away other people's money. If I had earned it by hard labor, and then given it to Claudy, there would have been some more show of generosity. Here come Georgia and her husband; you do not need me to read this evening, and I have work to do." She extricated herself from Mrs. Asbury's clasping arm and retired to her own room. The following day Claudia came to say that, as she knew not what else to do, she would gladly accept the position mentioned as teacher of drawing and painting. Mrs. Grayson's brother had come to take her home, but she was unwilling to be separated from Claudia. Beulah no longer hesitated, and the sum of five thousand dollars seemed to poor Claudia a fortune indeed. She could not understand how the girl whom she and her mother had insulted could possibly have the means of making them so comparatively comfortable. Beulah briefly explained the circumstances which had enabled her to assist them. The bulk of the money remained in Dr. Asbury's hands, and Claudia was to apply to him whenever she needed it. She and her mamma found a cheaper boarding house, and Claudia's duties began at once. Mrs. Grayson was overwhelmed with shame when the particulars were made known to her, and tears of bitter mortification could not obliterate the memory of the hour when she cruelly denied the prayer of the poor orphan to whom she now owed the shelter above her head. Beulah did not see her for many weeks subsequent; she knew how painful such a meeting would be to the humbled woman, and, while she constantly cheered and encouraged Claudia in her work, she studiously avoided Mrs. Grayson's presence.

Thus the winter passed; and once more the glories of a Southern spring were scattered over the land. To the Asburys Beulah was warmly attached, and her residence with them was as pleasant as any home could possibly have been which was not her own. They were all that friends could be to an orphan; still, she regretted her little cottage, and missed the home-feeling she had prized so highly. True, she had constant access to the greenhouse, and was rarely without her bouquet of choice flowers; but these could not compensate her for the loss of her own little garden. She struggled bravely with discontent; tried to look only on the sunshine in her path and to be always cheerful. In this she partially succeeded. No matter how lonely and sad she felt, she hid it carefully, and the evenings in the library were never marred by words of repining or looks of sorrow. To the close observer there were traces of grief in her countenance; and sometimes when she sat sewing while Mrs. Asbury read aloud, it was easy to see that her thoughts had wandered far from that little room. Time had changed her singularly since the old asylum days. She was now a finely formed, remarkably graceful woman, with a complexion of dazzling transparency. She was always pale, but the blue veins might be traced anywhere on her brow and temples; and the dark, gray eyes, with their long, jetty, curling lashes, possessed an indescribable charm, even for strangers. She had been an ugly child, but certainly she was a noble-looking, if not handsome, woman. To all but the family with whom she resided she was rather reserved; and while the world admired and eulogized her talents as a writer, she felt that, except Eugene, she had no friends beyond the threshold of the house she lived in. As weeks and months elapsed, and no news of her wandering guardian came, her hope began to pale. For weary years it had burned brightly; but constant disappointment was pressing heavily on her heart and crushing out the holy spark. The heartstrings will bear rude shocks and sudden rough handling, but the gradual tightening, the unremitted tension of long, tediously rolling years, will in time accomplish what fierce assaults cannot. Continually she prayed for his return; but, despite her efforts, her faith grew fainter as each month crept by and her smile became more constrained and joyless. She never spoke of her anxiety, never alluded to him; but pressed her hands over her aching heart and did her work silently—nay, cheerfully.