“You abominable heathen!  Why didn’t you come to church?  Even Dr. Asbury was out.”

“Guy, you missed an admirable sermon,” chimed in Mrs. Lockhart.

He was disengaging the fringe of Pauline’s shawl, which caught the button of his coat, and, looking up as his sister spoke, his eyes met Beulah’s anxious gaze.  She had wondered very much how he would receive her.  His countenance expressed neither surprise nor pleasure; he merely held out his hand to assist her, saying, in his usual grave manner: 

“I am glad to see you, Beulah.”

She looked up in his face for some trace of the old kindness; but the rare, fascinating smile and protective tenderness had utterly vanished.  He returned her look with a calmly indifferent glance, which pained her more than any amount of sternness could have done.  She snatched her hand from his, and, missing the carriage step, would have fallen, but he caught and placed her safely on the ground, saying coolly: 

“Take care; you are awkward.”

She followed Pauline up the steps, wishing herself at home in her little room.  But her companion’s gay chat diverted her mind, and she only remembered how very beautiful was the face she looked on.

They stood together before a mirror, smoothing their hair, and Beulah could not avoid contrasting the images reflected.  One was prematurely grave and thoughtful in its expression—­the other radiant with happy hopes.  Pauline surmised what was passing in her friend’s mind, and said merrily: 

“For shame, Beulah! to envy me my poor estate of good looks!  Why, I am all nose and eyes, curls, red lips, and cheeks; but you have an additional amount of brains to balance my gifts.  Once I heard Uncle Guy say that you had more intellect than all the other women and children in the town!  Come; Mr. Lockhart wants to see you very much.”

She ran down the steps as heedlessly as in her childhood, and Beulah followed her more leisurely.  In the study they found the remainder of the party; Mr. Lockhart was wrapt in a heavy dressing-gown, and reclined on the sofa.  He welcomed Beulah very warmly, keeping her hand in his and making her sit down near him.  He was emaciated, and a hacking cough prevented his taking any active part in the conversation.  One glance at his sad face sufficed to show her that his days on earth were numbered, and the expression with which he regarded his wife told all the painful tale of an unhappy marriage.  She was discussing the sermon, and declaring herself highly gratified at the impression which Mr. Mortimor had evidently made on his large and fashionable congregation.  Dr. Hartwell stood on the hearth, listening in silence to his sister’s remarks.  The Atlantic might have rolled between them, for any interest he evinced in the subject.  Pauline was restless and excited; finally she crossed the room, stood close to her uncle, and, carelessly fingering his watch chain, said earnestly:  “Uncle Guy, what did Ernest mean, this morning, by a ‘Fourieristic-phalanx?’”