“It is utterly false from beginning to end!  He never had such a thought! never! never!” cried Beulah, striking her clenched hand heavily on the table.

“Why, then, was he so anxious to prevent your teaching?”

“Because he is generous and kind, and fancied it was a life of hardship, which I could escape by accepting his offer to adopt me.  Your supposition is perfectly ridiculous.  He is double my age.  A stern, taciturn man.  What could possibly attract him to one whom he looks upon as a mere child?  And, moreover, he is a worshiper of beauty!  Now, it is an indisputable fact that I am anything but a beauty!  Oh, the idea is absurd beyond all degree.  Never mention it to me again.  I tell you solemnly, Clara, your jealous fancy has run away with your common sense.”

A sad, incredulous smile flitted over Clara’s face; but she made no reply.

“Clara, rouse yourself from this weak dream.  Oh, where is your pride—­your womanly pride—­your self-respect?  Is your life to be aimless and dreary because of an unrequited attachment?  Shake it off!  Rise above it!  Destroy it!  Oh, it makes the blood tingle in my veins to think of your wasting your energies and hopes in love for one who is so utterly indifferent to you.  Much as I love you, Clara, had I the power to make you his wife to-morrow, I would rather see you borne to your grave.  You know nothing of his fitful, moody nature; his tyrannical will.  You could not be happy with him; you would see how utterly unsuited you are.”

“Are you acquainted with the circumstances of his early life and ill-fated marriage?” asked Clara, in a low, passionless tone.

“No; he never alluded to his marriage in any way.  Long as I lived in his house there was no mention of his wife’s name, and I should never have known of his marriage but from his sister.”

“It was a most unhappy marriage,” said Clara musingly.

“So I conjectured from his studious avoidance of all allusion to it.”

“His wife was very, very beautiful; I saw her once when I was a child,” continued Clara.

“Of course she must have been, for he could not love one who was not.”

“She lived but a few months; yet even in that short time they had become utterly estranged, and she died of a broken heart.  There is some mystery connected with it; they were separated.”

“Separated!” cried Beulah in amazement.

“Yes, separated; she died in New Orleans, I believe.”

“And yet you profess to love him!  A man who broke his wife’s heart,” said Beulah, with a touch of scorn.

“No; you do his noble nature injustice.  He is incapable of such a course.  Even a censorious world acquitted him of unkindness.”

“And heaped contumely on the unhappy victim, eh?” rejoined Beulah.

“Her conduct was not irreproachable, it has been whispered.”

“Aye, whispered by slanderous tongues!  Not openly avowed, to admit of denial and refutation!  I wonder the curse of Gomorrah does not descend on this gossiping, libelous community.”