"Cornelia did not leave the legacy to the Graysons."

"Were she living, she would commend the use I am about to make of

it. Will you give me five thousand dollars of it?"

"Oh, Beulah, you are a queer compound! a strange being!"

"Will you give me five thousand dollars of that money tomorrow?"

persisted Beulah, looking steadily at him.

"Yes, child; if you will have it so." His voice trembled, and he

looked at the orphan with moist eyes.

Mrs. Asbury had taken no part in the conversation, but her earnest

face attested her interest. Passing her arm around Beulah's waist,

she hastily kissed her brow, and only said: "God bless you, my dear, noble Beulah!"

"I do not see that I am at all magnanimous in giving away other

people's money. If I had earned it by hard labor, and then given it

to Claudy, there would have been some more show of generosity. Here

come Georgia and her husband; you do not need me to read this

evening, and I have work to do." She extricated herself from Mrs.

Asbury's clasping arm and retired to her own room. The following day

Claudia came to say that, as she knew not what else to do, she would

gladly accept the position mentioned as teacher of drawing and

painting. Mrs. Grayson's brother had come to take her home, but she

was unwilling to be separated from Claudia. Beulah no longer

hesitated, and the sum of five thousand dollars seemed to poor

Claudia a fortune indeed. She could not understand how the girl whom

she and her mother had insulted could possibly have the means of

making them so comparatively comfortable. Beulah briefly explained

the circumstances which had enabled her to assist them. The bulk of

the money remained in Dr. Asbury's hands, and Claudia was to apply

to him whenever she needed it. She and her mamma found a cheaper

boarding house, and Claudia's duties began at once. Mrs. Grayson was

overwhelmed with shame when the particulars were made known to her,

and tears of bitter mortification could not obliterate the memory of

the hour when she cruelly denied the prayer of the poor orphan to

whom she now owed the shelter above her head. Beulah did not see her

for many weeks subsequent; she knew how painful such a meeting would

be to the humbled woman, and, while she constantly cheered and

encouraged Claudia in her work, she studiously avoided Mrs.

Grayson's presence.

Thus the winter passed; and once more the glories of a Southern

spring were scattered over the land. To the Asburys Beulah was

warmly attached, and her residence with them was as pleasant as any

home could possibly have been which was not her own. They were all

that friends could be to an orphan; still, she regretted her little

cottage, and missed the home-feeling she had prized so highly. True,

she had constant access to the greenhouse, and was rarely without

her bouquet of choice flowers; but these could not compensate her

for the loss of her own little garden. She struggled bravely with

discontent; tried to look only on the sunshine in her path and to be

always cheerful. In this she partially succeeded. No matter how

lonely and sad she felt, she hid it carefully, and the evenings in

the library were never marred by words of repining or looks of

sorrow. To the close observer there were traces of grief in her

countenance; and sometimes when she sat sewing while Mrs. Asbury

read aloud, it was easy to see that her thoughts had wandered far

from that little room. Time had changed her singularly since the old

asylum days. She was now a finely formed, remarkably graceful woman,

with a complexion of dazzling transparency. She was always pale, but

the blue veins might be traced anywhere on her brow and temples; and

the dark, gray eyes, with their long, jetty, curling lashes,

possessed an indescribable charm, even for strangers. She had been

an ugly child, but certainly she was a noble-looking, if not

handsome, woman. To all but the family with whom she resided she was

rather reserved; and while the world admired and eulogized her

talents as a writer, she felt that, except Eugene, she had no

friends beyond the threshold of the house she lived in. As weeks and

months elapsed, and no news of her wandering guardian came, her hope

began to pale. For weary years it had burned brightly; but constant

disappointment was pressing heavily on her heart and crushing out

the holy spark. The heartstrings will bear rude shocks and sudden

rough handling, but the gradual tightening, the unremitted tension

of long, tediously rolling years, will in time accomplish what

fierce assaults cannot. Continually she prayed for his return; but,

despite her efforts, her faith grew fainter as each month crept by

and her smile became more constrained and joyless. She never spoke

of her anxiety, never alluded to him; but pressed her hands over her

aching heart and did her work silently--nay, cheerfully.




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