“The sickness is abating, is it not, Beulah?”

“Yes, very perceptibly; but more from lack of fresh victims than anything else.  I hope we shall have a white frost soon.”

“It has been very horrible!  I shudder when I think of it,” said Clara.

“Then don’t think of it,” answered her companion.

“Oh, how can I help it?  I did not expect to live through it.  I was sure I should die when that chill came on.  You have saved me, dear Beulah!” Tears glistened in her soft eyes.

“No; God saved you.”

“Through your instrumentality,” replied Clara, raising her friend’s hand to her lips.

“Don’t talk any more; the doctor expressly enjoined quiet for you.”

“I am glad to owe my recovery to him also.  How noble and good he is--how superior to everybody else!” murmured the sick girl.

Beulah’s lips became singularly compact, but she offered no comment.  She walked up and down the room, although so worn out that she could scarcely keep herself erect.  When the doctor came she escaped unobserved to her room, hastily put on her bonnet, and ran down the steps for a short walk.  It was perfect Elysium to get out once more under the pure sky and breathe the air, as it swept over the bay, cool, sweet, and invigorating.  The streets were still quiet, but hearses and carts, filled with coffins, no longer greeted her on every side, and she walked for several squares.  The sun went down, and, too weary to extend her ramble, she slowly retraced her steps.  The buggy no longer stood at the door, and, after seeing Mrs. Hoyt and trying to chat pleasantly, she crept back to Clara.

“Where have you been?” asked the latter.

“To get a breath of fresh air and see the sun set.”

“Dr. Hartwell asked for you.  I did not know what had become of you.”

“How do you feel to-night?” said Beulah, laying her hand softly on Clara’s forehead.

“Better, but very weak.  You have no idea how feeble I am.  Beulah, I want to know whether—­”

“You were told to keep quiet, so don’t ask any questions, for I will not answer one.”

“You are not to sit up to-night; the doctor said I would not require it.”

“Let the doctor go back to the North and theorize in his medical conventions!  I shall sleep here by your bed, on this couch.  If you feel worse, call me.  Now, good-night; and don’t open your lips again.”  She drew the couch close to the bed, and, shading the lamp, threw her weary frame down to rest; ere long she slept.  The pestilential storm had spent its fury.  Daily the number of deaths diminished; gradually the pall of silence and desolation which had hung over the city vanished.  The streets resumed their usual busy aspect, and the hum of life went forward once more.  At length fugitive families ventured home again; and though bands of crape, grim badges of bereavement, met the eye on all sides, all rejoiced that Death had removed his court—­that his hideous carnival was over.  Clara regained her strength very slowly; and when well enough to quit her room, walked with the slow, uncertain step of feebleness.  On the last day of October she entered Beulah’s apartment, and languidly approached the table, where the latter was engaged in drawing.