“Very democratic.  Eh, Beulah?”

She smiled, and was about to reply, when her attention was attracted by a party which just then took their places immediately in front of her.  It consisted of an elderly gentleman and two ladies, one of whom Beulah instantly recognized as Cornelia Graham.  She was now a noble-looking, rather than beautiful, woman; and the incipient pride, so apparent in girlhood, had matured into almost repulsive hauteur.  She was very richly dressed, and her brilliant black eyes wandered indifferently over the room, as though such assemblages had lost their novelty and interest for her.  Chancing to look back, she perceived Dr. Hartwell, bowed, and said with a smile: 

“Pray, do not think me obstinate.  I had no wish to come, but father insisted.”

“I am glad you feel well enough to be here,” was his careless reply.

Cornelia’s eyes fell upon the quiet figure at his side, and, as Beulah me her steady gaze, she felt something of her old dislike warming in her eyes.  They had never met since the morning of Cornelia’s contemptuous treatment at Madam St. Cymon’s; and now, to Beulah’s utter astonishment, she deliberately turned round, put out her white-gloved hand over the back of the seat, and said energetically: 

“How are you, Beulah?  You have altered so materially that I scarcely knew you.”

Beulah’s nature was generous; she was glad to forget old injuries, and, as their hands met in a friendly clasp, she answered: 

“You have changed but little.”

“And that for the worse, as people have a pleasant way of telling me.  Beulah, I want to know honestly if my rudeness caused you to leave madam’s school?”

“That was not my only reason,” replied Beulah very candidly.

At this moment a burst of applause greeted the appearance of the cantatrice, and all conversation was suspended.  Beulah listened to the warbling of the queen of song with a thrill of delight.  Passionately fond of music, she appreciated the brilliant execution and entrancing melody as probably very few in that crowded house could have done.  With some of the pieces selected she was familiar, and others she had long desired to hear.  She was unconscious of the steady look with which her guardian watched her, as, with parted lips, she leaned eagerly forward to catch every note.  When Sontag left the stage, and the hum of conversation was heard once more, Beulah looked up, with a long sigh of delight, and murmured: 

“Oh, sir! isn’t she a glorious woman?”

“Miss Graham is speaking to you,” said he coolly.

She raised her head, and saw the young lady’s eyes riveted on her countenance.

“Beulah, when did you hear from Eugene?”

“About three weeks since, I believe.”

“We leave for Europe day after to-morrow; shall, perhaps, go directly to Heidelberg.  Have you any commissions? any messages?” Under the mask of seeming indifference, she watched Beulah intently as, shrinking from the cold, searching eyes, the latter replied: