“She raves,” said Beulah hastily.

A shadow fell upon his face, and, stooping over the pillow, he answered very gently: 

“Yes; he has come to save you.  He is here.”

She smiled, and seemed satisfied for a moment; then moaned and muttered on indistinctly.

“He knows it all?  Oh, poor, poor Clara!” thought Beulah. shading her face to prevent his reading what passed in her mind.

“How long have you been sitting up, Beulah?”

She told him.

“It is no wonder you look as if years had suddenly passed over your head!  You have a room here, I believe.  Go to it, and go to sleep; I will not leave Clara.”

It was astonishing how his presence removed the dread weight of responsibility from her heart.  Not until this moment had she felt as if she could possibly sleep.

“I will sleep now, so as to be refreshed for to-morrow and to-morrow night.  Here is a couch; I will sleep here, and if Clara grows worse you must wake me.”  She crossed the room, threw herself on the couch, and laid her aching head on her arm.  Dr. Hartwell placed a pillow under the head; once more his fingers sought her wrist; once more his lips touched her forehead, and as he returned to watch beside Clara and listen to her ravings, Beulah sank into a heavy, dreamless sleep of exhaustion.

CHAPTER XVIII.

She was awakened by the cool pattering of raindrops, which beat through the shutters and fell upon her face.  She sprang up with a thrill of delight and looked out.  A leaden sky lowered over the city, and as the torrents came down in whitening sheets, the thunder rolled continuously overhead, and trailing wreaths of smoke from the dying fires drooped like banners over the roofs of the houses.  Not the shower which gathered and fell around seagirt Carmel was more gratefully received.

“Thank God! it rains!” cried Beulah, and, turning toward Clara, she saw with pain that the sufferer was all unconscious of the tardy blessing.  She kissed the hot, dry brow; but no token of recognition greeted her anxious gaze.  The fever was at its height; the delicate features were strangely sharpened and distorted.  Save the sound of her labored breathing, the room was silent, and, sinking on her knees, Beulah prayed earnestly that the gentle sufferer might be spared.  As she rose her guardian entered, and she started at the haggard, wasted, harassed look of the noble face, which she had not observed before.  He bent down and coaxed Clara to take a spoonful of medicine, and Beulah asked earnestly: 

“Have you been ill, sir?”

“No.”

He did not even glance at her.  The affectionate cordiality of the hour of meeting had utterly vanished.  He looked as cold, stern, and impenetrable as some half-buried sphinx of the desert.

“Have you seen the others this morning?” said she, making a strong effort to conceal the chagrin this revulsion of feeling occasioned.