“The moving moon went up the sky,
      And nowhere did abide;
     Softly she was going up,
      And a star or two beside.”

The soft beams struggled to pierce the murky air, dense with smoke from the burning pitch.  There was no tread on the pavement—­all was solemn as Death, who held such mad revel in the crowded graveyards.  Through the shroud of smoke she could see the rippling waters of the bay, as the faint southern breeze swept its surface.  It was a desolation realizing all the horrors of the “Masque of the Red Death,” and as she thought of the mourning hearts in that silent city, of Clara’s danger and her own, Beulah repeated sadly those solemn lines: 

   “’Like clouds that rake the mountain summit,
      Or waves that own no curbing hand,
     How fast has brother followed brother,
      From sunshine to the sunless land!’”

Clasping her hands, she added earnestly: 

“I thank thee, my Father! that the Atlantic rolls between Eugene and this ‘besom of destruction.’”

A touch on her shoulder caused her to look around, and her eyes rested on her guardian.  She started, but did not speak, and held out her hand.  He looked at her long and searchingly; his lip trembled, and, instead of taking her offered hand, he passed his arm around her and drew her to his bosom.  She looked up with surprise; and, bending his haughty head, he kissed her pale brow for the first time.  She felt then that she would like to throw her arms round his neck and tell him how very glad she was to see him again—­how unhappy his sudden departure had made her; but a feeling she could not pause to analyze prevented her from following the dictates of her heart; and, holding her off, so as to scan her countenance, Dr. Hartwell said: 

“How worn and haggard you look!  Oh, child! your rash obstinacy has tortured me beyond expression.”

“I have but done my duty.  It has been a horrible time.  I am glad you have come.  You will not let Clara die.”

“Sit down, child.  You are trembling from exhaustion.”

He drew up a chair for her, and, taking her wrist in his hand, said, as he examined the slow pulse: 

“Was Clara taken violently?  How is she?”

“She is delirious, and so much alarmed at her danger that I feel very uneasy about her.  Come and see her; perhaps she will know you.”  She led the way to the bedside; but there was no recognition in the wild, restless eyes, and as she tossed from side to side, her incoherent muttering made Beulah dread lest she should discover to its object the adoring love which filled her pure heart.  She told her guardian what had been prescribed.  He offered no suggestion as to the treatment, but gave a potion which she informed him was due.  As Clara swallowed the draught, she looked at him, and said eagerly: 

“Has he come?  Did he say he would see me and save me?  Did Dr. Hartwell send me this?”