The day was dull, misty, and gusty. All the morning there had been a

driving southeasterly rain; but toward noon there was a lull. The

afternoon was heavy and threatening, while armies of dense clouds

drifted before the wind. Dr. Asbury had not yet returned from his

round of evening visits; Mrs. Asbury had gone to the asylum to see a

sick child, and Georgia was dining with her husband's mother. Beulah

came home from school more than usually fatigued; one of the

assistant teachers was indisposed, and she had done double work to

relieve her. She sat before her desk, writing industriously on an

article she had promised to complete before the end of the week.

Her head ached; the lines grew dim, and she laid aside her manuscript

and leaned her face on her palms. The beautiful lashes lay against

her brow, for the eyes were raised to the portrait above her desk,

and she gazed up at the faultless features with an expression of sad

hopelessness. Years had not filled the void in her heart with other

treasures. At this hour it ached with its own desolation, and,

extending her arms imploringly toward the picture, she exclaimed

sorrowfully: "O my God, how long must I wait? Oh, how long!"

She opened the desk, and, taking out a key, left her room and slowly

ascended to the third story. Charon crept up the steps after her.

She unlocked the apartment which Mrs. Asbury had given into her

charge some time before, and, raising one of the windows, looped

back the heavy blue curtains which gave a somber hue to all within.

From this elevated position she could see the stormy, sullen waters

of the bay breaking against the wharves, and hear their hoarse

muttering as they rocked themselves to rest after the scourging of

the tempest. Gray clouds hung low, and scudded northward: everything

looked dull and gloomy. She turned from the window and glanced

around the room. It was at all times a painful pleasure to come

here, and now, particularly, the interior impressed her sadly.

Here were the paintings and statues she had long been so familiar with,

and here, too, the melodeon which at rare intervals she opened. The

house was very quiet; not a sound came up from below; she raised the

lid of the instrument, and played a plaintive prelude. Echoes seven

or eight years old suddenly fell on her ears; she had not heard one

note of this air since she left Dr. Hartwell's roof. It was a

favorite song of his; a German hymn he had taught her, and now after

seven years she sang it. It was a melancholy air, and, as her

trembling voice rolled through the house, she seemed to live the old

days over again. But the words died away on her lips; she had

overestimated her strength; she could not sing it. The marble images

around her, like ghosts of the past, looked mutely down at her

grief.




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