“Why would not you see Julia Vincent?  She was so much disappointed.”

“Simply and solely because I did not choose to see her.  Be good enough to move your chair to one side, if you please,” snapped Cornelia.

“That was very unkind in you, considering she is so fond of you.  We are all to spend the evening with her next week—­you, and your brother, and I. A mere ‘sociable,’ she says.”  She had been admiringly inspecting her small hands, loaded with diamonds; and now, turning round, she again freely scrutinized Beulah, who had been silently contemplating her beautiful oval profile and silky auburn curls.  Certainly Antoinette Dupres was beautiful, but it was such a beauty as one sees in wax dolls—­blank, soulless, expressionless, if I may except the predominating expression of self-satisfaction.  Beulah’s quiet dignity failed to repel the continued stare fixed upon her, and, gathering up the folds of her shawl, she rose.

“Don’t go,” said Cornelia earnestly.

“I must; Clara is alone, and I promised to return soon.”

“When will you come again?” Cornelia took her hand and pressed it warmly.

“I really do not know.  I hope you will be better soon.”

“Eugene will be disappointed; he expects you to spend the evening with us.  What shall I tell him?”

“Nothing.”

“I will come and see you the very first day I can get out of this prison-house of mine.  Meantime, if I send for you, will you come and sit with me?”

“That depends upon circumstances.  If you are sick and lonely, I certainly will.  Good-by.”

“Good-by, Beulah.”  The haughty heiress drew the orphan’s face down to hers and kissed her cordially.  Not a little surprised by this unexpected demonstration of affection in one so cold and stately, Beulah bowed distantly to the cousin, who returned the salutation still more distantly, and, hastening down the steps, was glad to find herself once more under the dome of sky, gray and rainy though it was.  The wind sighed and sobbed through the streets, and a few cold drops fell, as she approached Mrs. Hoyt’s.  Quickening her steps, she ran in by a side entrance, and was soon at Clara’s room.  The door stood open, and, with bonnet and shawl in her hand, she entered, little prepared to meet her guardian, for she had absented herself with the hope of avoiding him.  He was sitting by a table, preparing some medicine, and looked up involuntarily as she came in.  His eyes lightened instantly, but he merely said: 

“Good-evening, Beulah.”

The tone was less icy than on previous occasions, and, crossing the room at once, she stood beside him, and held out her hand.

“How are you, sir?”

He did not, take the hand, but looked at her keenly, and said: 

“You are an admirable nurse, to go off and leave your sick friend.”

Beulah threw down her bonnet and shawl, and, retreating to the hearth, began to warm her fingers, as she replied, with indifference: