“Quite well, thank you, sir, and I dare say I am much more able to sit up with the sick than you, who have had no respite whatever.  Don’t stand up, when you must be so weary; take this easy-chair.”  Holding his hand firmly, she drew him down to it.  There had always been a fatherly tenderness in his manner toward her, when visiting at her guardian’s, and she regarded him with reverence and affection.  Though often blunt, he never chilled nor repelled her, as his partner so often did, and now she stood beside him, still holding one of his hands.  He smoothed back the gray hair from his furrowed brow, and, with a twinkle in his blue eye, said: 

“How much will you take for your services?  I want to engage you to teach my madcap daughters a little quiet bravery and uncomplaining endurance.”

“I have none of the Shylock in my composition; only give me a few kind words and I shall be satisfied.  Now, once for all, Dr. Asbury, if you treat me to any more barefaced flattery of this sort, I nurse no more of your patients.”

Dr. Hartwell here directed his partner’s attention to Clara, and, thoroughly provoked at the pertinacity with which he avoided noticing her, she seized the brief opportunity to visit Mrs. Hoyt and little Willie.  The mother welcomed her with a silent grasp of the hand and a gush of tears.  But this was no time for acknowledgments, and Beulah strove, by a few encouraging remarks, to cheer the bereaved parent and interest Willie, who, like all other children under such circumstances, had grown fretful.  She shook up their pillows, iced a fresh pitcher of water for them, and, promising to run down and see them often, now that Hal was forced to give his attention to the last victim, she noiselessly stole back to Clara’s room.  Dr. Hartwell was walking up and down the floor, and his companion sat just as she had left him.  He rose as she entered, and, putting on his hat, said kindly: 

“Are you able to sit up with Miss Sanders to-night?  If not, say so candidly.”

“I am able and determined to do so.”

“Very well.  After to-morrow it will not be needed.”

“What do you mean?” cried Beulah, clutching his arm.

“Don’t look so savage, child.  She will either be convalescent or beyond all aid.  I hope and believe the former.  Watch her closely till I see you again.  Good-night, dear child.”  He stepped to the door, and, with a slight inclination of his head, Dr. Hartwell followed him.

It was a vigil Beulah never forgot.  The night seemed interminable, as if the car of time were driven backward, and she longed inexpressibly for the dawning of day.  Four o’clock came at last; silence brooded over the town; the western breeze had sung itself to rest, and there was a solemn hush, as though all nature stood still to witness the struggle between dusky Azrael and a human soul.  Clara slept.  The distant stars looked down encouragingly from their homes of blue, and once more the lonely orphan bent