Beulah conjectured that they might, perhaps, entertain each other without her assistance, and soon left them for the greenhouse, which was connected with the parlors by a glass door.  Followed by Charon, who had remained beside her all day, she walked slowly between the rows of plants, many of which were laden with flowers.  Brilliant clusters of scarlet geranium, pale, fragrant heliotropes, and camellias of every hue surrounded her.  Two or three canary birds, in richly ornate cages, chirped and twittered continually, and for a moment she forgot the changes that had taken place since the days when she sought this favorite greenhouse to study her text-books.  Near her stood an antique China vase containing a rare creeper, now full of beautiful, star-shaped lilac flowers.  Many months before, her guardian had given her this root, and she had planted it in this same vase; now the long, graceful wreaths were looped carefully back, and tied to a slender stake.  She bent over the fragrant blossoms, with a heart brimful of memories, and tears dropped thick and fast on the delicate petals.  Charon gave a short bark of satisfaction, and, raising her head, she saw Dr. Hartwell at the opposite end of the greenhouse.  He was clipping the withered flowers from a luxuriant white japonica, the same that once furnished ornaments for her hair.  Evidently, he was rather surprised to see her there, but continued clipping the faded blossoms, and whistled to his dog.  Charon acknowledged the invitation by another bark, but nestled his great head against Beulah, and stood quite still, while she passed her hand caressingly over him.  She fancied a smile crossed her guardian’s lips; but when he turned toward her there was no trace of it, and he merely said: 

“Where is Pauline?”

“In the parlor, with Mr. Mortimer.”

“Here are the scissors; cut as many flowers as you like.”

He held out the scissors; but she shook her head, and answered hastily: 

“Thank you; I do not want any.”

He looked at her searchingly, and, observing unshed tears in her eyes, said, in a kinder tone than he had yet employed: 

“Beulah, what do you want?”

“Something that I almost despair of obtaining.”

“Child, you are wasting your strength and energies in a fruitless undertaking.  Already you have grown thin and hollow-eyed; your accustomed contented, cheerful spirit is deserting you.  Your self-appointed task is a hopeless one; utterly hopeless!”

“I will not believe it,” said she firmly.

“Very well; some day you will be convinced that you are not infallible.”  He smiled grimly, and busied himself with his flowers.

“Sir, you could help me, if you would.”  She clasped her hands over his arm, and fixed her eyes on his countenance, with all the confidence and dependence of other days.

“Did I ever refuse you anything you asked?” said he, looking down at the little hands on his arm, and at the pale, anxious face, with its deep, troubled eyes.