On Sabbath morning Beulah sat beside the window, with her folded
hands resting on her lap. The day was cloudless and serene; the sky
of that intense melting blue which characterizes our clime. From
every quarter of the city brazen muezzins called worshipers to the
temple, and bands of neatly clad, happy children thronged the
streets, on their way to Sabbath school. Save these, and the pealing
bells, a hush pervaded all things, as though Nature were indeed "at
her prayers." Blessed be the hallowed influences which every sunny
Sabbath morn exerts! Blessed be the holy tones which at least once a
week call every erring child back to its Infinite Father! For some
time Beulah had absented herself from church, for she found that
instead of profiting by sermons she came home to criticise and
question. But early associations are strangely tenacious, and, as
she watched the children trooping to the house of God, there rushed
to her mind memories of other years, when the orphan bands from the
asylum regularly took their places in the Sabbath school. The hymns
she sang then rang again in her ears; long-forgotten passages of
Scripture, repeated then, seemed learned but yesterday. How often
had the venerable superintendent knelt and invoked special guidance
for the afflicted band from the God of orphans! Now she felt doubly
orphaned. In her intellectual pride, she frequently asserted that
she was "the star of her own destiny"; but this morning childish
memories prattled of the Star of Bethlehem, before which she once
bent the knee of adoration. Had it set forever, amid clouds of
superstition, sin, and infidelity? Glittering spires pointed to the
bending heavens, and answered: "It burns on forever, 'brighter and
brighter unto the perfect day'!" With a dull weight on her heart,
she took down her Bible and opened it indifferently at her book-
mark. It proved the thirty-eighth chapter of Job, and she read on
and on, until the bells warned her it was the hour of morning
service. She walked to church, not humbled and prepared to receive
the holy teachings of revelation, but with a defiant feeling in her
heart which she did not attempt or care to analyze. She was not
accustomed to attend Dr. Hew's church, but the sexton conducted her
to a pew, and as she seated herself the solemn notes of the organ
swelled through the vaulted aisles. The choir sang a magnificent
anthem from Haydn's "Creation," and then only the deep, thundering
peal of the organ fell on the dim, cool air. Beulah could bear no
more; as she lowered her veil, bitter tears gushed over her troubled
face. Just then she longed to fall on her knees before the altar and
renew the vows of her childhood; but this impulse very soon died
away, and, while the pews on every side rapidly filled, she watched
impatiently for the appearance of the minister. Immediately in front
of her sat Mr. and Mrs. Graham and Antoinette Dupres. Beulah was
pondering the absence of Cornelia and Eugene, when a full, manly
voice fell on her ear, and, looking up, she saw Mr. Mortimor
standing in the pulpit. He looked older than Pauline's description
had prepared her to expect, and the first impression was one of
disappointment. But the longer she watched the grave, quiet face the
more attractive it became. Certainly he was a handsome man, and,
judging from the contour of head and features, an intellectual one.
There was an absolute repose in the countenance which might have
passed with casual observers for inertia, indifference; but to the
practiced physiognomist it expressed the perfect peace of a mind and
heart completely harmonious. The voice was remarkably clear and well
modulated. His text was selected from the first and last chapters of
Ecclesiastes, and consisted of these verses: "For in much wisdom is much grief; and he that increaseth knowledge,
increaseth sorrow."