“You are Miss Benton, then.  I have orders to show you up at once to Miss Cornelia’s room.  She has seen no visitors today.  This way, miss, if you please.”

He led the way, up an easy, spiral flight of steps, to the door of a room, which he threw open.  Cornelia was sitting in a large cushioned chair by the fire, with a papier-mache writing-desk beside her, covered with letters.  There was a bright fire in the grate, and the ruddy haze, together with the reflection from the crimson damask curtains, gave a dim, luxurious aspect to the chamber, which in every respect betokened the fastidious taste of a petted invalid.  Clad in a dark silk robe-de-chambre, with her cheek pressed against the blue velvet lining of the chair, Cornelia’s face wore a sickly, sallow hue, which was rendered more palpable by her black, glittering eyes and jetty hair.  She eagerly held out her hand, and a smile of sincere pleasure parted the lips, which a paroxysm of pain seemed to have just compressed.

“It is such a gloomy day I feared you would not come.  Take off your bonnet and shawl.”

“It is not so gloomy out as you imagine,” said Beulah.

“What? not, with dull clouds, and a stiff, raw, northeaster?  I looked out of the window a while since, and the bay looked just as I have seen the North Sea, gray and cold.  Why don’t you take off your bonnet?”

“Because I can only sit with you a short time,” answered Beulah, resisting the attempt made to take her shawl.

“Why can’t you spend the evening?” said Cornelia, frowning.

“I promised not to remain more than an hour.”

“Promised whom?”

“Clara Sanders.  She is sick; unable to leave her room; and is lonely when I am away.”

“My case is analogous; so I will put myself on the charity list for once.  I have not been downstairs for two days.”

“But you have everything to interest you even here,” returned Beulah, glancing around at the numerous paintings and engravings which were suspended on all sides, while ivory, marble, and bronze statuettes were scattered in profusion about the room.  Cornelia followed her glance, and asked, with a joyless smile: 

“Do you suppose those bits of stone and canvas satisfy me?”

“Certainly.  ‘A thing of beauty should be a joy forever.’  With all these, and your library, surely you are never lonely.”

“Pshaw! they tire me immensely.  Sometimes the cramped positions and unwinking eyes of that ‘Holy Family’ there over the chimneypiece make me perfectly nervous.”

“You must be morbidly sensitive at such times.”

“Why?  Do you never feel restless and dissatisfied without any adequate reason?”

“No, never.”

“And yet you have few sources of pleasure,” said Cornelia, in a musing tone, as her eyes wandered over her visitor’s plain attire.

“No! my sources of enjoyment are as varied and extended as the universe.”