Little Johnny's illness proved long and serious, and for many days

and nights he seemed on the verge of the tomb. His wailings were

never hushed except in Beulah's arms, and, as might be supposed,

constant watching soon converted her into a mere shadow of her

former self. Dr. Hartwell often advised rest and fresh air for her,

but the silent shake of her head proved how reckless she was of her

own welfare. Thus several weeks elapsed, and gradually the sick

child grew stronger. One afternoon Beulah sat holding him on her

knee: he had fallen asleep, with one tiny hand clasping hers, and

while he slept she read.

Absorbed in the volume Eugene had given

her, her thoughts wandered on with the author, amid the moldering

monuments of Westminster Abbey, and finally the sketch was concluded

by that solemn paragraph: "Thus man passes away; his name perishes

from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told,

and his very monument becomes a ruin." Again she read this sad

comment on the vanity of earth and its ephemeral hosts, and her mind

was filled with weird images, that looked out from her earnest eyes.

Dr. Hartwell entered unperceived, and stood for some moments at the

back of her chair, glancing over her shoulder at the last page.

At length she closed the book, and, passing her hand wearily over her

eyes, said audibly: "Ah! if we could only have sat down together in that gloomy garret,

and had a long talk! It would have helped us both. Poor Chatterton!

I know just how you felt, when you locked your door and lay down on

your truckle-bed, and swallowed your last draught!"

"There is not a word about Chatterton in that sketch," said the

doctor.

She started, looked up, and answered slowly: "No, not a word, not a word. He was buried among paupers, you know."

"What made you think of him?"

"I thought that instead of resting in the Abbey, under sculptured

marble, his bones were scattered, nobody knows where. I often think

of him."

"Why?"

"Because he was so miserable and uncared-for; because sometimes I

feel exactly as he did." As she uttered these words she compressed

her lips in a manner which plainly said, "There, I have no more to

say, so do not question me."

He had learned to read her countenance, and as he felt the infant's

pulse, pointed to the crib, saying: "You must lay him down now; he seems fast asleep."




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