“It is very selfish, sister mine, to keep Beulah so constantly beside you, when we all want to see something of her.”

“Was I ever anything else but selfish?”

“But I thought you prided yourself on requiring no society?”

“So I do, as regards society in general; but Beulah is an exception.”

“You intend to come down to-night, do you not?”

“Not if I can avoid it.  Eugene, take Beulah into the parlor, and ask Antoinette to sing.  Afterward make Beulah sing, also, and be sure to leave all the doors open, so that I can hear.  Mind, you must not detain her long.”

Beulah would have demurred, but at this moment she saw Dr. Hartwell’s buggy approaching the house.  Her heart seemed to spring to her lips, and, feeling that after their last unsatisfactory interview she was in no mood to meet him, she quickly descended the steps, so blinded by haste that she failed to perceive the hand Eugene extended to assist her.  The door-bell uttered a sharp peal as they reached the hall, and she had just time to escape into the parlor when the doctor was ushered in.

“What is the matter?” asked Eugene, observing the nervous flutter of her lips.

“Ask Miss Dupres to sing, will you?”

He looked at her curiously an instant, then turned away and persuaded the little beauty to sing.

She took her seat, and ran her jeweled fingers over the pearl keys with an air which very clearly denoted her opinion, of her musical proficiency.

“Well, sir, what will you have?”

“That favorite morceau from ‘Linda.’”

“You have never heard it, I suppose,” said she, glancing over her shoulder at the young teacher.

“Yes; I have heard it,” answered Beulah, who could with difficulty repress a smile.

Antoinette half shrugged her shoulders, as if she thought the statement questionable, and began the song.  Beulah listened attentively; she was conscious of feeling more than ordinary interest in this performance, and almost held her breath as the clear, silvery voice caroled through the most intricate passages.  Antoinette had been thoroughly trained, and certainly her voice was remarkably sweet and flexible; but as she concluded the piece and fixed her eyes complacently on Beulah, the latter lifted her head in proud consciousness of superiority.

“Sing me something else,” said she.

Antoinette bit her lips, and answered ungraciously: 

“No; I shall have to sing to-night, and can’t wear myself out.”

“Now, Beulah, I shall hear you.  I have sought an opportunity ever since I returned.”  Eugene spoke rather carelessly.

“Do you really wish to hear me, Eugene?”

“Of course I do,” said he, with some surprise.

“And so do I,” added Mrs. Graham, leaning against the piano, and exchanging glances with Antoinette.

Beulah looked up, and asked quietly: