“So do you, sir,” said she, smiling as her eyes wandered over his grim visage.

“You may well say that, child.  I snatched about two hours’ sleep this morning, and when I woke I felt very much like Coleridge’s unlucky sailor: 

    “’I moved, and could not feel my limbs;
       I was so light—­almost,
      I thought that I had died in sleep,
       And was a blessed ghost.’”

He hurried away to another part of the house, and Beulah went into her own apartment to arrange her hair, which she felt must need attention sadly.

Looking into the glass she could not forbear smiling at the face which looked back at her, it was so thin and ghastly; even the lips were colorless and the large eyes sunken.  She unbound her hair, and had only shaken it fully out, when a knock at her door called her from the glass.  She tossed her hair all back, and it hung like an inky veil almost to the floor, as she opened the door and confronted her guardian.

“Here is some medicine which must be mixed in a tumbler of water.  I want a tablespoonful given every hour, unless Clara is asleep.  Keep everything quiet.”

“Is that all?” said Beulah coolly.

“That is all.”  He walked off, and she brushed and twisted up her hair, wondering how long he meant to keep up that freezing manner.  It accorded very well with his treatment before his departure for the North, and she sighed as she recalled the brief hour of cordiality which followed his return.  She began to perceive that this was the way they were to meet in future; she had displeased him, and he intended that she should feel it.  Tears gathered in her eyes, but she drove them scornfully back, and exclaimed indignantly: 

“He wants to rule me with a rod of iron, because I am indebted to him for an education and support for several years.  As I hope for a peaceful rest hereafter, I will repay him every cent he has expended for music, drawing, and clothing!  I will economize until every picayune is returned.”

The purse had not been touched, and, hastily counting the contents to see that all the bills were there, she relocked the drawer and returned to the sickroom with anything but a calm face.  Clara seemed to be asleep, and, picking up a book, Beulah began to read.  A sickroom is always monotonous and dreary, and long confinement had rendered Beulah restless and uncomfortable.  Her limbs ached—­so did her head, and continued loss of sleep made her nervous to an unusual degree.  She longed to open her melodeon and play; this would have quieted her, but of course was not to be thought of, with four invalids in the house and death on almost every square in the city.  She was no longer unhappy about Clara, for there was little doubt that, with care, she would soon be well, and thus drearily the hours wore on.  Finally Clara evinced a disposition to talk.  Her nurse discouraged it, with exceedingly brief replies; intimating that she would improve her condition by going to sleep.  Toward evening Clara seemed much refreshed by a long nap, and took some food which had been prepared for her.