One day there came a letter postmarked from an inland town where Beulah had no correspondent. The direction, however, was instantly recognized, and she broke the seal hurriedly.

"What has become of you, Beulah? and what can have become of my two letters which were never answered? Concluding you never received them, I hazard a third attempt to reach you through the medium of letters. You will readily perceive that we have removed to a distant section of the State. Ernest was called to take charge of this parish, and we are delightfully located here, within a few minutes' walk of the church. Beulah, the storm which darkened over me, in the first year of my marriage, has swept by, and it is all sunshine, glorious sunshine, with me. You know my home was very unhappy for a time. My husband's family caused misunderstandings between us, influenced him against me, and made me very, very wretched. I could not tolerate Lucy's presence with any degree of patience, yet she would remain in our house. How it would have ended only Heaven knows, had not my husband been suddenly taken very ill.

"It was on Sabbath morning. He was displeased with me because of some of my disputes with his sister, and scarcely spoke to me before he went into the pulpit. Lucy and I sat together in the rector's pew, hating each other cordially; and when Ernest began the morning service I noticed he looked pale and weary. Before it was concluded he sank back exhausted, and was borne into the vestry room, covered with blood. He had a severe hemorrhage from the throat, his physician said, but Ernest thinks it was from his lungs. I was sure he would die; and oh, Beulah, what agony I endured, as I sat beside him and watched his ghastly face! But his illness was 'the blessing in disguise'; he forgot all our disgraceful bickerings, and was never satisfied unless I was with him. Lucy grumbled, and sneered, and looked sour; but I had my husband's heart again, and determined to keep it. As soon as he was strong enough I told him how wretched I had been and how sincerely I desired to make him happy, if Lucy would only not interfere. He saw that our domestic peace was dependent upon the change, and from that hour his sister ceased meddling with my affairs. What he said to her I never knew; but soon after his recovery she returned to her parents, and I was left in peace.

"I began in sober earnest to be all my husband wished me; read the books he liked (though it was a terrible bore at first); read to him; took part in all the societies connected with his church, and, in short, became quite a demure pastor's wife. Occasionally my old fondness for fun would break out, to the horror of some of his antediluvian flock; but Ernest was very good, and bore patiently with me, and now I am as prim and precise as any old maid of sixty. At home I do as I like; that is, when Ernest likes it too. I sing, and play, and romp with the dogs and kittens; but the moment the door bell rings, lo! a demure matron receives her guests! Ernest's health is quite restored, and I am as happy as the day is long. You should see me working in my garden, and sometimes churning before breakfast, to give Ernest a fresh glass of buttermilk. I would not change places with an empress, I am so happy. My husband loves me better than everything else beside, and what more could I desire?

"Do come and see me; we would be so delighted to have you spend some time in our home. I am such a genuine rustic you would scarcely recognize me. Just fancy me with an apron on, my sleeves rolled up, churning as fast as the dasher can fly and singing at the top of my voice. Mother was perfectly shocked, when she first came to live with me, and vowed I should not make a 'drudge' of myself. Drudge, indeed! because I chose to do something with my own hands for my husband! I told her I would 'drudge,' as she called it, just as long as Ernest loved such things as I could prepare for him myself; and I read her those famous remarks of Lady Mary Montagu, in which all domestic pursuits, even cooking, are dignified as a labor of love; whereupon Ernest gave me a kiss, and mother declined any further argumentation on the subject.

"How some of my fashionable city friends would elevate their fastidious noses at seeing me, with my check aprons, picking strawberries or arranging curds for tea! Come and see me; do, Beulah; I am the very happiest woman extant; that is, I would be, if I could only know something of Uncle Guy. It is almost five years since he left home, and for a long, long time we have heard nothing from him. This is the only sorrow I have. Sometimes I fear he must have died in some distant land, yet will not believe it. I want to see him very much; my heart aches when I think about him. Dear Uncle Guy! next to my husband, I believe I love him best. Can't you tell me something of him? or do you know as little as his relatives? Ernest says he will walk into our house some day without any intimation of his coming. Oh, I hope so! I endeavor to believe so! Do write to me. I often think of you, in your loneliness, and wish you were as happy as your friend,

"PAULINE."

Beulah laid the letter beside one received the previous day from Clara, and mused for some moments. They were both happily married, and she sincerely rejoiced over their fortunate lots; but Clara had onced loved her guardian; how could she possibly forget him so entirely? Was love a mere whim of the hour, fostered by fortuitously favorable circumstances, but chilled and vanquished by absence or obstacles? Could the heart demolish the idol it had once enshrined, and set up another image for worship? Was Time the conquering iconoclast? Why, then, did she suffer more acutely as each year rolled on? She had little leisure, however, for these reflections; the Asburys had returned, and the cottage had been rented by a family who were anxious to take possession immediately. Such articles of furniture as were no longer needed had been sent to an auction room, and she sat down in the empty dining room to see the last load removed. To-day she bade adieu to the cottage, and commenced boarding once more. Her heart was heavy, but her eyes were undimmed, and her grave, composed face betokened little of the sorrow which oppressed her. Here she had spent five years in peaceful seclusion; here she had toiled and earned reputation as a writer; and here many hours of happiness had been passed among her flowers. The place was very dear to her; it was the only spot on the face of the wide world she had ever felt was her home. Home! if it consists of but a sanded floor and unplastered walls, what a halo is shed upon its humble hearth! A palatial mansion, or sequestered cottage among wild forests, were alike sanctified by the name. Home! the heart's home! who shall compute its value? But Beulah must relinquish her retreat, and find refuge in the home of others. Would this content her? Was she to be always homeless? True, she was to reside with loved and tried friends, yet she would be a homeless orphan still, without claims upon one living being. The grave had closed over the kind matron who had so warmly loved her, and she was without ties in the world. These thoughts passed through her mind as she saw the last chair deposited on a furniture cart and borne away. Charon looked up at her mournfully, as if to ask:

"Are we homeless? Where shall we wander?" She stroked his head, and went into the flower garden to gather a last bouquet from plants she had so carefully tended. An early frost had nipped the buds, but the chrysanthemums were in all their glory—crimson, white, and orange. She broke some of the beautiful clusters, and, with a long, lingering look, turned away. The black mourning veil was thrown back from a pale, calm face: and as she walked on, reflecting upon the future, which stretched dimly before her, she exclaimed:

"Why should I wish it otherwise? The arms of a merciful God will shield me, under all circumstances. My life was not given for a mere holiday. So I but do my duty faithfully, all will be well. Ah, truly, I can say:"

"'Let me, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate,
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor, and to wait!'"

"Yes, learn to labor and to wait. The heart cries out fiercely for its recompense; is loath to wait. But I can conquer even this. I will be patient and hopeful. Duty is its own recompense."

Mrs. Asbury spared no exertion to make the orphan happy in her house. She treated her with the gentle frankness which characterized her deportment toward her daughters; and to identify her with her own family, often requested her to assist in her household plans. She thoroughly understood and appreciated Beulah's nature, and perfect confidence existed between them. It was no sooner known that Beulah was an inmate of the house than many persons, curious to see one of whom rumor spoke so flatteringly, availed themselves of the circumstance to make her acquaintance. Almost unconsciously, she soon found herself the center of a circle of literary people whom she had often heard of, but had never known previously. Gradually her reserve melted away, and her fine colloquial powers developed themselves; but she wearied of the visitors—wearied even of the themes discussed, and, having passed her life in seclusion, found in solitude a degree of enjoyment which society could not confer. Helen had married a planter, and resided at some distance from the city, but Georgia and her husband remained at home. Thus, imperceptibly, time wore on. Eugene often came and spent an hour with Beulah; and, still more frequently, Cornelia was sent to while away an evening with her merry prattle. Very steadily Eugene advanced in his profession; the applause of the world cheered him on, and an enviable reputation was his at last. Grasping ambition lured him, step by step; and it was evident that he aimed at a seat beside Reginald Lindsay. Rejoiced at his entire reformation, and proud of his success, Beulah constantly encouraged his aspirations. Antoinette was as gay and indifferent as ever, and Eugene divided his heart between his child and his ambition.

By a system of rigid economy in the disposal of her time, Beulah not only attended to her school duties, her music, and her books, but found leisure, after writing her magazine articles, to spend some time each day with the family under whose roof she resided. Dr. Asbury's health was rather feeble, and of late his eyes had grown so dim as to prevent his reading or writing. This misfortune was to a great extent counterbalanced by his wife's devoted attention, and often Beulah shared the duties of the library. One bright Sunday afternoon she walked out to the cemetery, which she visited frequently. In one corner of a small lot, inclosed by a costly iron railing, stood a beautiful marble monument, erected by Mr. Grayson over Lilly's grave. It represented two angels bearing the child up to its God. Just opposite, in the next lot, was a splendid mausoleum of the finest white marble, bearing in gilt letters the name "Cornelia Graham, aged twenty-three." It was in the form of a temple, with slender fluted columns supporting the portico; and on the ornate capitals was inscribed in corresponding gilt characters, "Silentio! silentio!" At the entrance stood two winged forms, crowned with wreaths of poppies; and a pair of beautiful vases held withered flowers. Beulah sat on the marble steps. Before her stretched aisles of tombstones; the sunshine sparkled on their polished surfaces, and was reflected as from countless mirrors. Myrtle and laurel trees waved gently in the icy north wind, and stately, solemn cedars kept guard in every inclosure. All was silent and still, save those funereal evergreen boughs which stirred softly as if fearful of disturbing the pale sleepers around them. Human nature shrinks appalled from death and all that accompanies it; but in the deep repose, the sacred hush, which reigned over the silent city, there was for Beulah something inexpressibly soothing. In a neighboring lot she could see a simple white slab Eugene had erected over the remains of the friend of their childhood. Her labors ended, the matron slept near the forms of Lilly and Cornelia. Here winter rains fell unheeded, and here the balmy breath of summer brought bright blossoms and luxuriant verdure. Mocking-birds sang cheerfully in the sentinel cedars, and friends wandered slowly over the shelled walks, recalling the past. Here there was no gloom to affright the timid soul; all was serene and inviting. Why should the living shrink from a resting-place so hallowed and peaceful? And why should death be invested with fictitious horrors? A procession entered one of the gates, and wound along the carriage road to a remote corner of the burying-ground. The slow, measured tread of the horses, the crush of wheels on the rocky track, and the smothered sobs of the mourners, all came in subdued tones to Beulah's ears. Then the train disappeared, and she was again in solitude. Looking up, her eyes rested on the words above her: "Silentio! silentio!" They were appropriate, indeed, upon the monument of her who had gone down into the tomb so hopelessly, so shudderingly. Years had passed since the only child had been laid here; yet the hour of release was as fresh in Beulah's memory as though she had seen the convulsed features but yesterday; and the words repeated that night seemed now to issue from the marble lips of the statues beside her: "For here we have no continuing city, but seek one to come." With her cheek on her hand, the orphan sat pondering the awful mystery which darkened the last hour of the young sleeper; and, looking back over her own life, during the season when she "was without God and without hope," she saw that only unbelief had clothed death with terror. Once she stood on this same spot, and with trembling horror saw the coffin lowered. Had death touched her then, she would have shrunk appalled from the summons; but now it was otherwise.

"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die."

She believed; and, while a beautiful world linked her to life, and duty called to constant and cheerful labor, death lost its hideous aspect. With a firm faith in the Gospel of Christ, she felt that earth with all its loveliness was but a probationary dwelling-place; and that death was an angel of God, summoning the laborers to their harvest home. She had often asked what is the aim and end of life? One set of philosophers told her it was to be happy. Another exclaimed it was to learn to endure with fortitude all ills. But neither satisfied her; one promised too much, the other too little, and only in revelation was an answer found. Yet how few pause to ponder its significance! With the majority, life is the all: the springtime, the holiday; and death the hated close of enjoyment. They forget that

"Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow
Find us further than to-day."

The path of Christianity is neither all sunshine nor all shadow, checkered certainly, but leading to a final abode of unimaginable bliss; and, with the Bible to guide her, the orphan walked fearlessly on, discharging her duties, and looking unto God and his Christ to aid her. She sat on the steps of the sepulcher, watching the last rays of the setting sun gild the monumental shafts that pointed to heaven. Her grave face might have told the scrutinizing observer of years of grief and struggle; but it also betokened an earnest soul calmly trusting the wisdom and mercy of the All-Father. She sighed as she thought of the gifted but unhappy woman who slept near her, and, rising, walked on to Lilly's tomb. Ten years had rolled their waves over her since that little form was placed here. She looked down at the simple epitaph: "He taketh his young lambs home." The cherub face seemed to beam upon her once more, and the sweet, birdlike tones of her childish voice still lingered in the secret cells of memory. She extended her arms, as if to clasp the form borne up by the angels, and said tremulously:

"Lilly, my sister, my white-robed darling, but a little while and we shall meet where orphanage is unknown! 'He doeth all things well!' Ah, little sleeper, I can wait patiently for our reunion."

As she turned her steps homeward a shadowy smile stole over her features, and the lines about her mouth resumed their wonted composure.

"Beulah, father has been asking for you," said Georgia, who met her on the staircase.

"I will go down to him immediately," was the cheerful answer, and, putting away her bonnet and shawl, she went at once to the library. The doctor was leaning very far back in his favorite chair, and she saw at a glance he had fallen asleep.

Mrs. Asbury sat at a table, weighing out some medicine he had directed sent to a patient. She looked up as Beulah entered, smiled, and said in an undertone:

"My liege lord is indulging in a nap. Come to the fire, dear; you look cold."

She left the room with the medicine, and Beulah stood before the bright wood fire and watched the ruddy light flashing grotesquely over the pictures on the wall. The gas had not yet been lighted; she crossed the room, and sat down before the window. A red glow still lingered in the west, and, one by one, the stars came swiftly out. She took up a book she had been reading that morning; but it was too dim to see the letters, and she contented herself with looking out at the stars, brightening as the night deepened. "So should it be with faith," thought she, "and yet, as troubles come thick and fast, we are apt to despair." Mrs. Asbury came back and lighted the gas, but Beulah was too much absorbed to notice it. The doctor waked, and began to talk about the severity of the winter further north and the suffering it produced among the poor. Presently he said:

"What has become of that child Beulah—do you know, Alice?"

"Yes; there she is by the window. You were asleep when she came in."

He looked round and called to her.

"What are you thinking about, Beulah? You look as cold as an iceberg. Come to the fire. Warm hands and feet will aid your philosophizing wonderfully."

"I am not philosophizing, sir," she replied, without rising.

"I will wager my elegant new edition of Coleridge against your old one that you are! Now, out with your cogitations, you incorrigible dreamer!"

"I have won your Coleridge. I was only thinking of that Talmudish tradition regarding Sandalphon, the angel of prayer."

"What of him?"

"Why, that he stands at the gate of heaven, listens to the sounds that ascend from earth, and, gathering all the prayers and entreaties, as they are wafted from sorrowing humanity, they change to flowers in his hands, and the perfume is borne into the celestial city to God. Yesterday I read Longfellow's lines on this legend, and suppose my looking up at the stars recalled it to my mind. But Georgia told me you asked for me. Can I do anything for you, sir? Are there any prescriptions you wish written off?" She came and stood by his chair.

"No, thank you, child; but I should like to hear more of that book you were reading to me last night—that is, if it will not weary you, my child."

"Certainly not—here it is. I was waiting for you to ask me for more of it. Shall I begin now, or defer it till after tea?"

"Now, if you please."

Mrs. Asbury seated herself on an ottoman at her husband's feet, and threw her arm up over his knee; and, opening Butler's "Analogy," Beulah began to read where she left off the previous day, in the chapter on "a future life."

With his hand resting on his wife's head, Dr. Asbury listened attentively. At the conclusion of the chapter, she turned to the dissertation on "personal identity," so nearly related to it, and read it slowly and impressively.

"It is remarkably clear and convincing," said the doctor, when she ceased.

"Yes; his argument that death, instead of being an abnormal event, is as much a law of our nature as birth (because necessary to future development), and that, as at maturity, we have perfections of which we never dreamed in infancy, so death may put us in possession of new powers, by releasing us from the chrysalis state, is one which has peculiar significance to my mind. Had Cornelia Graham studied it, she would never have been tortured by the thought of that annihilation which she fancied awaited her. From childhood this question of 'personal identity' has puzzled me; but, it seems to me, this brief treatise of Butler is quite satisfactory. It should be a text-book in all educational institutions; should be scattered far and wide through the land."

Here the solemn tones of the church bells told that the hour of evening service drew near. The doctor started, and said abruptly:

"Bless me! Alice, are we to have no tea to-night?"

"Yes; the tea bell rang some minutes ago; but Beulah had not quite finished her chapter, and I would not interrupt."

As they walked on to the dining room he said:

"You two are going to church, I suppose?"

"No; I shall remain with you," answered his wife gently.

"You need not, my dear. I will go with you, if you prefer it." Beulah did not look up, but she knew that true-hearted wife was unspeakably happy; and understood why, during tea, she was so quiet, so unwontedly silent.