“Beulah, will you let me say what is in my heart?”

“Say it freely, my brown-eyed darling.”

“Well, then, Beulah; give it up; give it up.  It will only bow down your heart with untold cares and sorrows.”

“Give up what?”

“This combat with loneliness and poverty.”

“I am not lonely,” answered Beulah, with a wintry smile.

“Oh, Beulah! yes, you are; wretchedly lonely.  I have been but a poor companion for you; intellectually, you are far beyond me, and there has been little congeniality in our tastes and pursuits.  I have always known this; and I know, too, that you never will be a happy woman until you have a companion equal in intellect, who understands and sympathizes with you.  Ah, Beulah! with all your stubborn pride, and will, and mental endowments, you have a woman’s heart; and crush its impulses as you may, it will yet assert its sway.  As I told you long ago, grammars, and geographies, and duty could not fill the void in my heart; and, believe me, neither will metaphysics and philosophy and literature satisfy you.  Suppose you do attain celebrity as a writer.  Can the plaudits of strangers bring back to your solitary hearth the loved dead, or cheer you in your hours of gloom?  I too am an orphan; I speak of what I can appreciate.  You are mistaken, Beulah, in thinking you can dispense with sympathy.  You are not sufficient for yourself, as you have so proudly maintained.  God has created us for companionship; it is a necessity of human nature.”

“Then why are you and I orphaned for all time?” asked Beulah coldly.

“The sablest clouds of sorrow have silver linings.  Perhaps that you and I might turn more continually to the God of orphans.  Beulah, God has not flooded earth with eternal sunlight.  He knew that shadows were needed to chasten the spirits of his children, and teach them to look to him for the renewal of all blessings.  But shadows are fleeting, and every season of gloom has its morning star.  Oh, I thank God that his own hand arranged the chiaroscuro of earth!” She spoke earnestly; the expression of her eyes told that her thoughts had traveled into the dim, weird land of futurity.  Beulah offered no comment; but the gloom deepened on her brow and her white fingers crept restlessly over the piano keys.  After a moment’s silence, Clara continued: 

“I would not regret our separation so much if I left you in the possession of Christian faith; armed with a perfect trust in the religion of Jesus Christ.  Oh, Beulah, it makes my heart ache when I think of you, struggling so fiercely in the grasp of infidelity!  Many times have I seen the light shining beneath your door, long after midnight, and wept over the conflict in which I knew you were engaged; and only God knows how often I have mingled your name in my prayers, entreating him to direct you in your search, to guide you safely through the paths of skepticism, and place your weary feet upon the ‘rock of ages.’  Oh, Beulah, do not make my prayers vain by your continued questioning!  Come back to Christ and the Bible.”  Tears glided down her cheeks as she passed her arm round her friend, and dropped her head on her shoulder.  Beulah’s eyelids trembled an instant, but there was no moisture in the gray depths, as she answered: