“You place an exalted estimate upon yourself,” returned Cornelia.

They looked at each other half-defiantly for a moment; then the heiress bowed her head, and said, in low, broken tones: 

“Oh, Beulah, Beulah! child of poverty! would I could change places with you!”

“You are weak, Cornelia,” answered Beulah gravely.

“In some respects, perhaps, I am; but you are bold to tell me so.”

“Genuine friendship ignores all hesitancy in speaking the truth.  You sought me.  I am very candid—­perhaps blunt.  If my honesty does not suit you it is an easy matter to discontinue our intercourse.  The whole matter rests with you.”

“You wish me to understand that you do not need my society—­my patronage?”

“Patronage implies dependence, which, in this instance, does not exist.  An earnest, self-reliant woman cannot be patronized, in the sense in which you employ the term.”  She could not forbear smiling.  The thought of being under patronage was, to her, supremely ridiculous.

“You do not want my friendship, then?”

“I doubt whether you have any to bestow.  You seem to have no love for anything,” replied Beulah coldly.

“Oh, you wrong me!” cried Cornelia passionately.

“If I do, it is your own fault.  I only judge you from what you have shown of your nature.”

“Remember, I have been an invalid all my life.”

“I am not likely to forget it in your presence.  But, Cornelia, your whole being seems embittered.”

“Yes; and you will be just like me when you have lived as long as I have.  Wait till you have seen something of the world.”

“Sit down, Cornelia; you tremble from head to foot.”  She drew a chair close to the hearth, and the sufferer sank into it, as if completely exhausted.  For some time neither spoke.  Beulah stood with her hands on the back of the chair, wishing herself back in her quiet little room.  After a while Cornelia said slowly: 

“If you only knew Antoinette as well as I do you could ill brook the thought of her ever being Eugene’s wife.”

“He is the best judge of what will promote his happiness.”

“No; he is blinded, infatuated.  Her pretty face veils her miserable, contemptible defects of character.  She is utterly unworthy of him.”

“If she loves him sincerely, she will—­”

“Don’t talk of what you do not understand.  She is too selfish to love anything or anybody but herself.  Mark me, whether I live to see it or not, if he marries her, he will despise her in less than six months, and curse himself for his blind folly.  Oh, what a precious farce it will prove!” She laughed sneeringly.

“Cornelia, you are not able to bear this excitement.  For the present, let Eugene and his future rest and try to compose yourself.  You are so nervous you can scarcely sit still.”

The colorless face, with its gleaming eyes, was suddenly lifted; and, throwing her arms round Beulah’s neck, Cornelia rested her proud head on the orphan’s shoulder.