"What is all this confusion about? I ordered this portion of the house kept silent, did I not?"

"Yes, Guy; and I hope you will forgive Pauline's thoughtlessness.

She blundered in here, and I have just been scolding her for disobeying your injunctions."

"Uncle Guy, it was not thoughtlessness, at all; I came on purpose.

For a week I have been nearly dying with curiosity to see that little skeleton you have shut up here, and I ran up to get a glimpse of her. I don't see the harm of it; I haven't hurt her." Pauline looked fearlessly up in her uncle's face, and planted herself firmly in the door, as if resolved not to be ejected.

"Does this house belong to you or to me, Pauline?"

"To you, now; to me, some of these days, when you give it to me for a bridal present."

His brow cleared, he looked kindly down into the frank, truthful countenance, and said, with a half-smile:

"Do not repeat your voyage of discovery, or perhaps your bridal antic.i.p.ations may prove an egregious failure. Do you understand me?"

"I have not finished the first. Mother played pirate, and carried me off before I was half satisfied. Uncle Guy, take me under your flag, do! I will not worry the little thing--I promise you I will not.

Can't I stay here a while?" He smiled, and put his hand on her head, saying:

"I am inclined to try you. May, you can leave her here. I will send her to you after a little." As he spoke, he drew her up to the orphan. Beulah looked at them an instant, then averted her head.

"Beulah, this is my niece, Pauline Chilton; and, Pauline, this is my adopted child, Beulah Benton. You are about the same age, and can make each other happy, if you will. Beulah, shake hands with my niece." She put up her pale, slender fingers, and they were promptly clasped in Pauline's plump palm.

"Do stop crying, and look at me. I want to see you," said the latter.

"I am not crying."

"Then what are you hiding your face for?"

"Because it is so ugly," answered the orphan sadly.

Pauline stooped down, took the head in her hands, and turned the features to view. She gave them a searching examination, and then, looking up at her uncle, said bluntly:

"She is not pretty, that is a fact; but, somehow, I rather like her.

If she did not look so doleful, and had some blood in her lips, she would pa.s.s well enough; don't you think so?"

Dr. Hartwell did not reply; but, raising Beulah from the floor, placed her in the chair she had vacated some time before. She did, indeed, look "doleful," as Pauline expressed it, and the beaming, lovely face of the latter rendered her wan aspect more apparent.

"What have you been doing all day?" said the doctor kindly.

She pointed to the asylum, and answered in a low, subdued tone:

"Thinking about my past life--all my misfortunes."

"You promised you would do so no more."

"Ah, sir! how can I help it?"

"Why, think of something pleasant, of course," interrupted Pauline.

"You never had any sorrows; you know nothing of suffering," replied Beulah, allowing her eyes to dwell on the fine, open countenance before her--a mirthful, sunny face, where waves of grief had never rippled.

"How came you so wise? I have troubles sometimes, just like everbody else."

Beulah shook her head dubiously.

"Pauline, will you try to cheer this sad little stranger? will you be always kind in your manner, and remember that her life has not been as happy as yours? Can't you love her?"

She shrugged her shoulders, and answered evasively:

"I dare say we will get on well enough, if she will only quit looking so dismal and graveyardish. I don't know about loving her; we shall see."

"You can go down to your mother now," said he gravely.

"That means you are tired of me, Uncle Guy!" cried she, saucily shaking her curls over her face.

"Yes, heartily tired of you; take yourself off."

"Good-by, shadow; I shall come to see you again to-morrow." She reached the door, but looked back.

"Uncle, have you seen Charon since you came home?"

"No."

"Well, he will die if you don't do something for him. It is a shame to forget him as you do!" said she indignantly.

"Attend to your own affairs, and do not interfere with mine."

"It is high time somebody interfered. Poor Charon! If Hal doesn't take better care of him, I will make his mother box his ears; see if I don't."

She bounded down the steps, leaving her uncle to smooth his brow at leisure. Turning to Beulah, he took her hand, and said very kindly:

"This large room does not suit you. Come, and I will show you your own little room--one I have had arranged for you." She silently complied, and, leading her through several pa.s.sages, he opened the door of the apartment a.s.signed her. The walls were covered with blue and silver paper; the window curtains of white, faced with blue, matched it well, and every article of furniture bespoke lavish and tasteful expenditure. There was a small writing-desk near a handsome case of books, and a little work-table with a rocking-chair drawn up to it. He seated Beulah, and stood watching her, as her eyes wandered curiously and admiringly around the room. They rested on a painting suspended over the desk, and, wrapt in contemplating the design, she forgot for a moment all her sorrows. It represented an angelic figure winging its way over a valley beclouded and dismal, and pointing, with a radiant countenance, to the gilded summit of a distant steep. Below, bands of pilgrims, weary and worn, toiled on; some fainting by the wayside, some seated in sullen despair, some in the att.i.tude of prayer, some pressing forward with strained gaze and pale, haggard faces.

"Do you like it?" said Dr. Hartwell.

Perhaps she did not hear him; certainly she did not heed the question; and, taking a seat near one of the windows, he regarded her earnestly. Her eyes were fastened on the picture, and, raising her hands toward it, she said in broken, indistinct tones:

"I am dying down in the dark valley; oh, come, help me to toil on to the resting-place."

Her head sank upon her bosom, and bitter waves lashed her heart once more.

Gradually evening shadows crept on, and at length a soft hand lifted her face, and a musical voice said:

"Beulah, I want you to come down to my study and make my tea. Do you feel strong enough?"

"Yes, sir." She rose at once and followed him, resolved to seem cheerful.

The study was an oblong room, and on one side book-shelves rose almost to the ceiling. The opposite wall, between the windows, was covered with paintings, and several statues stood in the recesses near the chimney. Over the low marble mantelpiece hung a full-length portrait, shrouded with black c.r.a.pe, and underneath was an exquisitely chased silver case, containing a small Swiss clock. A beautiful terra-cotta vase, of antique shape, stood on the hearth, filled with choice and fragrant flowers, and near the window sat an elegant rosewood melodeon. A circular table occupied the middle of the room, and here the evening meal was already arranged. Beulah glanced timidly around as her conductor seated her beside the urn, and, seeing only cups for two persons, asked hesitatingly: