The lamp was brought in and the fire renewed, and the two friends

sat by the hearth, silent, quiet. Clara's face had a sweet, serene

look: Beulah's was composed, so far as rigidity of features

betokened; yet the firm curve of her full upper lip might have

indexed somewhat of the confusion which reigned in her mind. Once a

great, burning light flashed out from her eyes, then the lashes

drooped a little and veiled the storm. After a time Clara lifted her

eyes, and said gently: "Will you read to me, Beulah?"

"Gladly, gladly; what shall it be?" She sprang up eagerly.

"Anything hopeful and strengthening. Anything but your study-books

of philosophy and metaphysics. Anything but those, Beulah."

"And why not those?" asked the girl quickly.

"Because they always confuse and darken me."

"You do not understand them, perhaps?"

"I understand them sufficiently to know that they are not what I

need."

"What do you need, Clara?"

"The calm content and courage to do my duty through life. I want to

be patient and useful."

The gray eyes rested searchingly on the sweet face, and then, with a

contracted brow, Beulah stepped to the window and looked out. The

night was gusty, dark, and rainy; heavy drops pattered briskly down

the panes. She turned away, and, standing on the hearth, with her

hands behind her, slowly repeated the beautiful lines, beginning: "'The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of night,

As a feather is wafted downward

From an eagle in his flight.'"

Her voice was low and musical, and, as she concluded the short poem

which seemed so singularly suited to Clara's wishes, the latter said

earnestly: "Yes, yes, Beulah," "'Such songs have power to quiet

The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction

That follows after prayer.'"

"Let us obey the poet's injunction, and realize the closing lines:"

"'And the night shall be filled with music,

And the cares that infest the day

Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away.'"

Still Beulah stood on the hearth, with a dreamy abstraction looking

out from her eyes, and when she spoke there was a touch of

impatience in her tone: "Why try to escape it all, Clara? If those 'grand old masters,'

those 'bards sublime,' who tell us in trumpet-tones of 'life's

endless toil and endeavor,' speak to you through my loved books, why

should you 'long for rest'?"




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