“That will do, Harriet.  I do not wish any more advice.  I don’t want your master’s fortune, even if I had the offer of it!  I am determined to make my own living; so just say no more about it.”

“Take care, child.  Remember, ’Pride goeth before a fall’!”

“What do you mean?” cried Beulah angrily.

“I mean that the day is coming when you will be glad enough to come back and let my master take care of you!  That’s what I mean.  And see if it doesn’t come to pass.  But he will not do it then; I tell you now he won’t.  There is no forgiving spirit about him; he is as fierce, and bears malice as long, as a Comanche Injun!  It is no business of mine though.  I have said my say; and I will be bound you will go your own gait.  You are just about as hard-headed as he is himself.  Anybody would almost believe you belonged to the Hartwell family.  Every soul of them is alike in the matter of temper; only Miss Pauline has something of her pa’s disposition.  I suppose, now her ma is married again, she will want to come back to her uncle; should not wonder if he ’dopted her, since you have got the bit between your teeth.”

“I hope he will,” answered Beulah.  She ill brooked Harriet’s plain speech, but remembrances of past affection checked the severe rebuke which more than once rose to her lips.

“We shall see; we shall see!” And Harriet walked off with anything but a placid expression of countenance, while Beulah sought Mrs. Watson to explain her sudden departure and acquaint her with her plans for the summer.  The housekeeper endeavored most earnestly to dissuade her from taking the contemplated step, assuring her that the doctor would be grieved and displeased; but her arguments produced no effect, and, with tears of regret, she bade her farewell.

The sun was setting when Beulah took possession of her room at Mrs. Hoyt’s house.  The furniture was very plain, and the want of several articles vividly recalled the luxurious home she had abandoned.  She unpacked and arranged her clothes, and piled her books on a small table, which was the only substitute for her beautiful desk and elegant rosewood bookcase.  She had gathered a superb bouquet of flowers as she crossed the front yard, and, in lieu of her Sevres vases, placed them in a dim-looking tumbler which stood on the tall, narrow mantelpiece.  Her room was in the third story, with two windows, one opening to the south and one to the west.  It grew dark by the time she had arranged the furniture, and, too weary to think of going down to tea, she unbound her hair and took a seat beside the window.  The prospect was extended; below her were countless lamps, marking the principal streets; and, in the distance, the dark cloud of masts told that river and bay might be distinctly seen by daylight.  The quiet stars looked dim through the dusty atmosphere, and the noise of numerous vehicles rattling by produced a confused impression, such as she had never before received at this usually