“As a prominent member of this circle, why do you not attempt to rectify this spreading evil?  You might effect lasting good.”

“I am no Hercules, to turn the Peneus of reform through the Augean realms of society,” answered Cornelia, with an impatient gesture; and, rising, she drew on her glove.  Beulah looked up at her, and pitied the joyless, cynical nature, which gave an almost repulsively austere expression to the regular, faultless features.

“Beulah, will you come on Saturday morning and spend an hour or so with me?”

“No; I have a music lesson to give; but if you will be at home in the afternoon, I will come with pleasure.”

“I shall expect you, then.  You were drawing when I came in; are you fond of it?” As she spoke she took up a piece which was nearly completed.

“Yes; but you will find my sketches very crude.”

“Who taught you to draw?”

“I have had several teachers.  All rather indifferent, however.”

“Where did you see a St. Cecilia?  There is too much breadth of brow here,” continued Cornelia, with a curious glance at the young teacher.

“Yes; I deviated from the original intentionally.  I copied it from a collection of heads which Georgia Asbury brought from the North.”

“I have a number of choice paintings, which I selected in Europe.  Any that you may fancy are at your service for models.”

“Thank you.  I shall be glad to avail myself of the privilege.”

“Good-by.  You will come Saturday?”

“Yes; if nothing occurs to prevent, I will come in the afternoon.”  Beulah pressed her offered hand, and saw her descend the steps with a feeling of pity which she could not exactly analyze.  Passing by the window, she glanced down, and paused to look upon an elegant carriage standing before the door.  The day was cold, but the top was thrown back, and on one of the cushions sat, or, rather, reclined, a richly dressed and very beautiful girl.  As Beulah leaned out to examine the lovely stranger more closely Cornelia appeared.  The driver opened the low door, and, as Cornelia stepped in, the young lady, who was Miss Dupres, of course, ejaculated rather peevishly: 

“You stayed an age!”

“Drive down the Bay Road, Wilson,” was Cornelia’s reply, and, as she folded her rich cloak about her, the carriage was whirled away.

Beulah went back to the fire, warmed her fingers, and resumed her drawing, thinking that she would not willingly change places with the petted child of wealth and luxury.

CHAPTER XX.

It was a dreary Saturday afternoon, but Beulah wrapped a warm shawl about her, and set out to pay the promised visit.  The air was damp and raw, and leaden, marbled clouds hung in the sky.  Mr. Graham’s house was situated in the fashionable part of the city, near Mr. Grayson’s residence, and, as Beulah passed the crouching lions, she quickened her steps, to escape the painful reminiscences which they recalled.  In answer to her ring, the servant ushered her into the parlors, furnished with almost Oriental magnificence, and was retiring, when she gave her name.