All this was said in an undertone, and, after advising everything that could possibly be done, he left the room, beckoning Beulah after him.  She followed, and he said earnestly: 

“Child, I tremble for you.  Why did you leave Hartwell’s house and incur all this peril?  Beulah, though it is nobly unselfish in you to devote yourself to the sick, as you are doing, it may cost you your life—­nay, most probably it will.”

“I have thought of it all, sir, and determined to do my duty.”

“Then God preserve you.  Those children have been taken violently; watch them closely; good nursing is worth all the apothecary shops.  You need not send for me any more; I am out constantly; whenever I can I will come; meantime, depend only on the nursing.  Should you be taken yourself, let me know at once; do not fail.  A word more—­keep yourself well stimulated.”

He hurried away, and she returned to the sickroom, to speculate on the probability of soon meeting her guardian.  Who can tell how dreary were the days and nights that followed?  Mrs. Hoyt took the fever, and mother and children moaned together.  On the morning of the fourth day the eldest child, a girl of eight years, died, with Beulah’s hand grasped in hers.  Happily, the mother was unconscious, and the little corpse was borne into an adjoining room.  Beulah shrank from the task which she felt for the first time in her life called on to perform.  She could nurse the living, but dreaded the thought of shrouding the dead.  Still, there was no one else to do it, and she bravely conquered her repugnance, and clad the young sleeper for the tomb.  The gentlemen boarders, who had luckily escaped, arranged the mournful particulars of the burial; and, after severing a sunny lock of hair for the mother, should she live, Beulah saw the cold form borne out to its last resting-place.  Another gloomy day passed slowly, and she was rewarded by the convalescence of the remaining sick child.  Mrs. Hoyt still hung upon the confines of eternity; and Beulah, who had not closed her eyes for many nights, was leaning over the bed counting the rushing pulse, when a rapid step caused her to look up, and, falling forward in her arms, Clara cried: 

“Save me! save me!  The chill is on me now!”

It was too true; and as Beulah assisted her to her room and carefully bathed her feet, her heart was heavy with dire dread lest Clara’s horror of the disease should augment its ravages.  Dr. Asbury was summoned with all haste; but, as usual, seemed an age in coming, and when at last he came could only prescribe what had already been done.  It was pitiable to watch the agonized expression of Clara’s sweet face, as she looked from the countenance of the physician to that of her friend, striving to discover their opinion of her case.

“Doctor, you must send Hal to me.  He can nurse Mrs. Hoyt and little Willie while I watch Clara.  I can’t possibly take care of all three, though Willie is a great deal better.  Can you send him at once?  He is a good nurse.”