“Her mother has been sitting up so constantly that she is completely exhausted, and somebody must assist in nursing Kate.  I did not know that she had any contagious disease; but if she has, I suppose I might as well run the risk as anybody else.  It is but common humanity to aid the family.”

“Oh! if you choose to risk your life it is your own affair.  Do not imagine for an instant that I expected my advice to weigh an iota with you.”

He walked off to Kate, felt her pulse, and, without waking her, proceeded to replenish the glass of medicine on the table.  Beulah was in no mood to obtrude herself on his attention; she went to the window, and stood with her back to him.  She could not tamely bear his taunting manner, yet felt that it was out of her power to retort, for she still reverenced him.  She was surprised when he came up to her, and said abruptly: 

“To-day I read an article in ‘T——­’s Magazine’ called the ’Inner Life,’ by ‘Delta.’”

A deep crimson dyed her pale face an instant, and her lips curled ominously, as she replied, in a would-be indifferent tone: 

“Well, sir?”

“It is not well, at all.  It is very ill.  It is most miserable!”

“Well! what do I care for the article in ‘T——­’s Magazine’?  “These words were jerked out, as it were, with something like a sneer.

“You care more than you will ever be brought to confess.  Have you read this precious ’Inner Life’?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Have you any idea who the author is?”

“Yes, sir; I know the author; but if it had been intended or desired that the public should know, also, the article would never have appeared over a fictitious signature.”

This “Inner Life,” which she had written for the last number of the magazine, was an allegory, in which she boldly attempted to disprove the truth of the fact Tennyson has so inimitably embodied in “The Palace of Art,” namely, that love of beauty and intellectual culture cannot satisfy the God-given aspirations of the soul.  Her guardian fully comprehended the dawning, and as yet unacknowledged dread which prompted this article, and hastily laying his hand on her shoulder, he said: 

“Ah, proud girl! you are struggling desperately with your heart.  You, too, have reared a ‘palace’ on dreary, almost inaccessible crags; and, because already you begin to weary of your isolation, you would fain hurl invectives at Tennyson, who explores your mansion, ‘so royal, rich, and wide,’ and discovers the grim specters that dwell with you!  You were very miserable when you wrote that sketch; you are not equal to what you have undertaken.  Child, this year of trial and loneliness has left its impress on your face.  Are you not yet willing to give up the struggle?”

The moon had risen, and, as its light shone on her countenance, he saw a fierce blaze in her eyes he had never noticed there before.  She shook off his light touch, and answered: