"Never mind, Hal; I can do that. Did your master leave no other

message for me? was there no note?" She leaned heavily on a chair to

support herself.

"None that I know of, except that you must be kind to Charon. I have

no time to spare; Dr. Asbury needs me; so good-by, Miss Beulah. I

will stop some day when I am passing, and see how the dog comes on.

I know he will be satisfied with you."

The faithful servant touched his hat and withdrew. The storm of

grief could no longer be repressed, and, sinking down on the floor,

Beulah clasped her arms round Charon's neck and hid her face in his

soft, curling hair, while her whole frame shook with convulsive

sobs. She had not believed her guardian would leave without coming

again, and had confidently expected him, and now he had gone.

Perhaps forever; at best, for many years. She might never see him

again, and this thought was more than she could endure. The proud

restraint she was wont to impose upon her feelings all vanished, and

in her despairing sorrow she wept and moaned as she had never done

before, even when Lilly was taken from her. Charon crouched close to

her, with a mute grief clearly written in his sober, sagacious

countenance, and each clung to the other, as to a last stay and

solace. He was a powerful animal, with huge limbs, and a think,

shaggy covering, sable as midnight, without a speck of white about

him. Around his neck was a silver chain, supporting a broad piece of

plate, on which was engraved, in German letters, the single word,

"Hartwell." How long she sat there Beulah knew not; but a growl

roused her, and she saw Mrs. Williams looking sorrowfully at her.

"My child, what makes you moan and weep so bitterly."

"Oh, because I am so miserable; because I have lost my best friend;

my only friend; my guardian. He has gone--gone! and I did not see

him." With a stifled cry her face went down again.

The matron had never seen her so unnerved before, and wondered at

the vehemence of her grief, but knew her nature too well to attempt

consolation. Beulah lifted the box and retired to her own room,

followed by Charon. Securing the door, she put the case on the table

and looked at it wistfully. Were her conjectures, her hopes,

correct? She raised the lid and unwrapped the frame, and there was

the noble head of her guardian. She hung the portrait on a hook just

above her desk, and then stood, with streaming eyes, looking up at

it. It had been painted a few weeks after his marriage, and

represented him in the full morning of manhood, ere his heart was

embittered and his clear brow overshadowed. The artist had suffered

a ray of sunshine to fall on the brown hair that rippled round his

white temples with careless grace. There was no mustache to shade

the sculptured lips, and they seemed about to part in one of those

rare, fascinating smiles which Beulah had often watched for in vain.

The matchless eyes looked down at her, with brooding tenderness in

their hazel depths, and now seemed to question her uncontrollable

grief. Yet she had pained him; had in part caused his exile from the

home of his youth, and added another sorrow to those which now

veiled that peerless face in gloom. He had placed his happiness in

her hands; had asked her to be his wife. She looked at the portrait,

and shuddered and moaned. She loved him above all others; loved him

as a child adores its father; but how could she, who had so

reverenced him, consent to become his wife? Besides, she could not

believe he loved her. He liked her; pitied her isolation and

orphanage; felt the need of her society, and wanted her always in

his home. But she could not realize that he, who so worshiped

beauty, could possibly love her. It was all like a hideous dream

which morning would dispel; but there was the reality, and there was

Charon looking steadily up at the portrait he was at no loss to

recognize.




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