“I will come, after a while, and take my breakfast.  There is no accounting for your master’s movements.  I would as soon engage to keep up with a comet.  There, let go my dress; I am going into the study for a while.”  She went slowly down the steps and, locking the door of the study to prevent intrusion, looked around the room.  There was an air of confusion, as though books and chairs had been hastily moved about.  On the floor lay numerous shreds of crape, and, glancing up, she saw, with surprise, that the portrait had been closely wrapped in a sheet and suspended with the face to the wall.  Instantly an uncontrollable desire seized her to look at that face.  She had always supposed it to be his wife’s likeness, and longed to gaze upon the features of one whose name her husband had never mentioned.  The mantel was low, and, standing on a chair, she endeavored to catch the cord which supported the frame; but it hung too high.  She stood on the marble mantel, and stretched her hands eagerly up; but though her fingers touched the cord she could not disengage it from the hook, and, with a sensation of keen disappointment, she was forced to abandon the attempt.  A note on the desk attracted her attention.  It was directed to her, and contained only a few words: 

“Accompanying this is a purse containing a hundred dollars.  In any emergency which the future may present, do not hesitate to call on your guardian.”

She laid her head down on his desk and sobbed bitterly.  For the first time she realized that he had indeed gone—­gone without one word of adieu, one look of kindness or reconciliation.  Her tortured heart whispered:  “Write him a note; ask him to come home; tell him you will not leave his house.”  But pride answered:  “He is a tyrant; don’t be grieved at his indifference; he is nothing to you; go to work boldly and repay the money you have cost him.”  Once more, as in former years, a feeling of desolation crept over her.  She had rejected her guardian’s request, and isolated herself from sympathy; for who would assist and sympathize with her mental difficulties as he had done?  The tears froze in her eyes, and she sat for some time looking at the crumpled note.  Gradually an expression of proud defiance settled on her features; she took the purse, walked up to her room, and put on her bonnet and mantle.  Descending to the breakfast room, she drank a cup of coffee, and, telling Mrs. Watson she would be absent an hour or two, left the house and proceeded to Madam St. Cymon’s.  She asked to see Miss Sanders, and, after waiting a few minutes in the parlor, Clara made her appearance.  She looked wan and weary, but greeted her friend with a gentle smile.

“I heard of your triumph yesterday, Beulah, and most sincerely congratulate you.”

“I am in no mood for congratulations just now.  Clara, did not you tell me, a few days since, that the music teacher of this establishment was ill and that Madam St. Cymon was anxious to procure another?”