“He told me that he knew nothing of your movements or plans.  I wish, for your sake, you could be reconciled.”

“We will be some day.  I must wait patiently,” said she, with a sigh.

“Beulah, I don’t like that troubled look about your mouth.  What is the matter?  Can I in any way remove it?  It is connected with me, even remotely?  My dear Beulah, do not shrink from me.”

“Nothing is the matter that you can rectify,” said she gravely.

“Something is the matter, then, which I may not know?”

“Yes.”

“And you will not trust me?”

“It is not a question of trust, Eugene.”

“You think I cannot help you?”

“You cannot help me, I am sure.”  “Well, I will see you again to-morrow; till then, good-by.”  They shook hands, and she went back to her own room.  Cornelia’s note contained an invitation to spend the next evening with them; she would call as soon as possible.  She put it aside, and, throwing her arms on the mantelpiece, bowed her head upon them.  This, then, was the hour which, for five years, she had anticipated as an occasion of unmixed delight.  She was not weeping; no, the eyes were dry and the lips firmly fixed.  She was thinking of the handsome face which a little while before was beside her; thinking, with keen agony, of footprints there which she had never dreamed of seeing; they were very slight, yet unmistakable—­the fell signet of dissipation.  Above all, she read it in the eyes, which once looked so fearlessly into hers.  She knew he did not imagine for an instant that she suspected it; and of all the bitter cups which eighteen years had proffered, this was by far the blackest.  It was like a hideous dream, and she groaned, and passed her hand over her brow, as if to sweep it all away.  Poor Beulah! the idol of her girlhood fell from its pedestal and lay in crumbling ruins at her feet.  In this hour of reunion she saw clearly into her own heart; she did not love him, save as a friend, as a brother.  She was forced to perceive her own superiority; could she love a man whom she did not revere?  Verily, she felt now that she did not love Eugene.  There was a feeling of contempt for his weakness, yet she could not bear to see him other than she had hoped.  How utterly he had disappointed her?  Could it be possible that he had fallen so low as to dissipate habitually?  This she would not believe; he was still too noble for such a disgraceful course.  She felt a soft touch on her shoulder, and raised her sad, tearless face.  Clara, with her ethereal, spiritual countenance, stood on the hearth.  “Do I disturb you?” said she timidly.

“No; I am glad you came.  I was listening to cold, bitter, bitter thoughts.  Sit down, Clara; you look fatigued.”

“Oh, Beulah!  I am weary in body and spirit; I have no energy; my very existence is a burden to me.”

“Clara, it is weak to talk so.  Rouse yourself, and fulfill the destiny for which you were created.”