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'?"