“George, what is the matter with her?”

“She is distressed, or, rather, perplexed, about her religious doubts, I inferred from what she said just before you came in.  She has drifted out into a troubled sea of philosophy, I am inclined to think, and, not satisfied with what she has found, is now irresolute as to the proper course.  Poor child, she is terribly in earnest about the matter.”  He sighed heavily.

His wife watched him eagerly.

“What did you tell her?”

“Not to come to me; that it would be a perfect exemplification of ‘the blind leading the blind’; and when she learned my own state of uncertainty, she seemed to think so herself.”

An expression of acute pain passed over her features; but, banishing it as speedily as possible, she answered very gently: 

“Take care, my husband, lest by recapitulating your doubts you strengthen hers.”

“Alice, I told her the whole truth.  She is not a nature to be put off with halfway statements.  Hartwell is an avowed infidel, and she knows it; yet I do not believe his views have weighed with her against received systems of faith.  My dear Alice, this spirit of skepticism is scattered far and wide over the land; I meet with it often where I least expect it.  It broods like a hideous nightmare over this age, and Beulah must pass through the same ordeal which is testing the intellectual portion of every community.  But—­there is that eternal door-bell.  Let us have dinner, Alice; I must go out early this afternoon.”

He took down a pair of scales and began to weigh some medicine.  His wife wisely forbore to renew the discussion, and, ringing the bell for dinner, interested him with an account of her visit to a poor family who required his immediate attention.

With a heart unwontedly heavy Beulah prepared to call upon Pauline, later in the afternoon of the same day.  It was not companionship she needed, for this was supplied by books, and the sensation of loneliness was one with which she had not yet been made acquainted; but she wanted a strong, healthy, cultivated intellect, to dash away the mists that were wreathing about her own mind.  Already the lofty, imposing structure of self-reliance began to rock to its very foundations.  She was nearly ready for her walk, when Mrs. Hoyt came in.

“Miss Beulah, there is a lady in the parlor waiting to see you.”

“Is it Miss Graham?”

“No.  She is a stranger, and gave no name.”

Beulah descended to the parlor in rather an ungracious mood.  As she entered a lady sprang to meet her, with both hands extended.  She was superbly beautiful, with a complexion of dazzling whiteness, and clear, radiant, violet eyes, over which arched delicately penciled brows.  The Grecian mouth and chin were faultlessly chiseled; the whole face was one of rare loveliness.

“You don’t know me!  For shame, Beulah, to forget old friends!”