As she drew near the asylum gate memory began to pass its fingers over her heart; but here, too, sounds of gladness met her.  The orphans were assembled on the lawn in front of the building, chatting as cheerfully as though they were all members of one family.  The little ones trundled hoops and chased each other up and down the graveled walks; some of the boys tossed their balls, and a few of the larger girls were tying up chrysanthemums to slender stakes.  They were dressed alike; all looked contented, neat, and happy, and their rosy faces presented a noble tribute to the efficacy and untold blessings of the institution.  To many of them Beulah was well known.  She threw off her bonnet and shawl, and assisted the girls in their work among the flowers, while the little ones gathered around her, lisping their childish welcome and coaxing her to join in their innocent games.  The stately China trees, where, in years gone by, Lilly and Claudy had watched the chirping robins, were again clad in their rich, golden livery; and, as Beulah looked up at the red brick walls that had sheltered her head in the early days of orphanage, it seemed but yesterday that she trod these walks and listened to the wintry wind sighing through these same loved trees.  The children told her that their matron had been sick and was not yet quite well, and, needing no pilot, Beulah went through the house in search of her.  She found her at last in the storeroom, giving out materials for the evening meal, and had an opportunity of observing the change which had taken place in the last few months.  She was pale and thin, and her sharpened features wore a depressed, weary expression; but, turning round, she perceived Beulah, and a glad smile broke instantly over her countenance as she clasped the girl’s hand in both hers.

“Dear child, I have looked for you a long time.  I did not think you would wait so many weeks.  Come in and sit down.”

“I did not know you had been sick until I came and heard the children speak of it.  You should have sent met word.  I see you have not entirely recovered.”

“No; I am quite feeble yet; but, in time, I hope I shall be well again.  Ah, Beulah, I have wanted to see you so much! so much!  Child, it seems to me I shall never get used to being separated from you.”

Beulah sat on the sofa near her, and the matron’s withered hands were passed caressingly over the glossy bands of hair which lay on the orphan’s white temples.

“I love to come here occasionally; it does me good.  But not too often; that would be painful, you know.”

Beulah spoke in a subdned voice, while memory painted the evening when Eugene had sought her in this apartment and wiped away her tears for Lilly’s absence.  Her features twitched as she thought of the bitter changes that rolling years work, and she sighed unconsciously.  The matron’s hands were still smoothing her hair, and presently she said, with an anxious, scrutinizing look: