necessity of the soul.  There was no scoffing tendency in her skepticism; she could not jest over the solemn issues involved, and stood wondering which way she should next journey after this “pearl of great price.”  It was well for her that garlands of rhetoric and glittering logic lay over the pitfalls before her; for there were unsounded abysses, darker than any she had yet endeavored to fathom.  Clara came back, and softly laid her hand on her friend’s arm.

“Please put up your book and sing something for me, won’t you?”

Beulah looked at the serene countenance, so full of resignation, and answered gloomily: 

“What! are you, too, tired of listening to this storm-anthem nature has treated us to for the last two days?  It seems to me the very universe, animate and inanimate, is indulging in an uncontrollable fit of the ‘blues.’  One would almost think the dead-march was being played up and down the aisles of creation.”

She pressed her hands to her hot brow, as if to wipe away the cobwebs that dimmed her vision, and, raising the lid of the piano, ran her fingers over the keys.

“Sing me something hopeful and heart-cheering,” said Clara.

“I have no songs of that description.”

“Yes, you have:  ‘Look Aloft’ and the ‘Psalm of Life.’”

“No, no.  Impossible.  I could not sing either now,” replied Beulah, averting her face.

“Why not now?  They are the excelsior strains of struggling pilgrims.  They were written for the dark hours of life.”

“They are a mockery to me.  Ask me for anything else,” said she, compressing her lips.

Clara leaned her arm on the piano, and, looking sadly at her companion, said, as if with a painful effort: 

“Beulah, in a little while we shall be separated, and only the All-Father knows whether we shall meet on earth again.  My application for that situation as governess up the country brought me an answer to-day.  I am to go very soon.”

Beulah made no reply, and Clara continued sorrowfully: 

“It is very painful to leave my few remaining friends and go among perfect strangers, but it is best that I should.”  She leaned her head on her hand, and wept.

“Why is it best?”

“Because here I am constantly reminded of other days and other hopes, now lying dead on my heart.  But we will not speak of this.  Of all my ties here, my love for you is now the strongest.  Oh, Beulah, our friendship has been sacred, and I dread the loneliness which will be my portion when hundreds of miles lie between us!  The links that bind orphan hearts like ours are more lasting than all others.”

“I shall be left entirely alone, if you accept this situation.  You have long been my only companion.  Don’t leave me, Clara,” murmured Beulah, while her lips writhed and quivered.

“You will have the Asburys still, and they are sincere friends.”

“Yes, friends, but not companions.  What congeniality is there between those girls and myself?  None.  My isolation will be complete when you leave me.”