"Have you forgotten Eugene so soon?"

For an instant the eyes lighted up; then the long lashes swept her

cheeks, and she murmured: "Eugene; he has left me too; something will happen to him also. I

never loved anything but trouble came upon it."

Dr. Hartwell smiled grimly, as though unconsciously she had turned

to view some page in the history of his own life.

"Beulah, you must not despond; Eugene will come back an elegant

young man before you are fairly out of short dresses. There, do not

talk any more, and don't cry. Try to sleep, and remember, child, you

are homeless and friendless no longer." He pressed her hand kindly,

and turned toward the door. It opened, and Mrs. Chilton entered.

"Good-morning, Guy; how is your patient?" said she blandly.

"Good-morning, May; my little patient is much better. She has been

talking to me, and I am going to send her some breakfast." He put

both hands on his sister's shoulders, and looked down into her

beautiful eyes. She did not flinch, but he saw a grayish hue settle

around her lips.

"Ah! I thought last night there was little hope of her recovery. You

are a wonderful doctor, Guy; almost equal to raising the dead." Her

voice was even, and, like his own, marvelously sweet.

"More wonderful still, May; I can read the living." His mustached

lip curled, as a scornful smile passed over his face.

"Read the living? Then you can understand and appreciate my pleasure

at this good news. Doubly good, because it secures Pauline's return

to-day. Dear child, I long to have her at home again." An expression

of anxious maternal solicitude crossed her features. Her brother

kept his hand on her shoulder, and as his eye fell on her glossy

auburn curls, he said, half musingly: "Time touches you daintily, May; there is not one silver footprint

on your hair."

"He has dealt quite as leniently with you. But how could I feel the

inroads of time, shielded as I have been by your kindness? Cares and

sorrows bleach the locks oftener than accumulated years; and you,

Guy, have most kindly guarded your poor widowed sister."

"Have I indeed, May?"

"Ah! what would become of my Pauline and me, but for your

generosity, your--"

"Enough! Then, once for all, be kind to yonder sick child; if not

for her sake, for your own. You and Pauline can aid me in making her

happy, if you will. And if not, remember, May, you know my nature.

Do not disturb Beulah now; come down and let her be quiet." He led

her down the steps, and then, throwing open a glass door, stepped

out upon a terrace covered with Bermuda grass and sparkling like a

tiara in the early sunlight. Mrs. Chilton watched him descend the

two white marble steps leading down to the flower beds, and, leaning

against the wall, she muttered: "It cannot be possible that that miserable beggar is to come between

Pauline and his property! Is he mad, to dream of making that little

outcast his heiress? Yet he meant it; I saw it in his eye; the

lurking devil that has slumbered since that evening, and that I

hoped would never gleam out at me again. Oh! we are a precious

family. Set the will of one against another, and all Pandemonium

can't crush either! Ten to one, Pauline will lose her wits too, and

be as hard to manage as Guy." Moody and perplexed, she walked on to

the dining room. Beulah had fallen into a heavy slumber of

exhaustion, and it was late in the day when she again unclosed her

eyes. Harriet sat sewing near her, but soon perceived that she was

awake, and immediately put aside her work.




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