Cornelia was propped up by cushions and pillows in her easy-chair; her head was thrown back, and her gaze appeared to be riveted on a painting which hung opposite.  Beulah stood beside her a moment, unnoticed, and saw with painful surprise the ravages which disease had made in the once beautiful face and queenly form.  The black, shining hair was cut short, and clustered in thick, wavy locks about the wan brow, now corrugated as by some spasm of pain.  The cheeks were hollow and ghastly pale; the eyes sunken, but unnaturally large and brilliant; and the colorless lips compressed as though to bear habitual suffering.  Her wasted hands, grasping the arms of the chair, might have served as a model for a statue of death, so thin, pale, almost transparent.  Beulah softly touched one of them, and said: 

“Cornelia, you wished to see me.”

The invalid looked at her intently, and smiled.

“I thought you would come.  Ah, Beulah, do you recognize this wreck as your former friend?”

“I was not prepared to find you so changed; for until this afternoon I was not aware your trip had been so fruitless.  Do you suffer much?”

“Suffer!  Yes; almost all the time.  But it is not the bodily torture that troubles me so much—­I could bear that in silence.  It is my mind, Beulah; my mind.”

She pointed to a chair; Beulah drew it near her, and Cornelia continued: 

“I thought I should die suddenly; but it is to be otherwise The torture is slow, lingering.  I shall never leave this house again, except to go to my final home.  Beulah, I have wanted to see you very much; I thought you would hear of my illness and come.  How calm and pale you are!  Give me your hand.  Ah, cool and pleasant; mine parched with fever.  And you have a little home of your own, I hear.  How have things gone with you since we parted?  Are you happy?”

“My little home is pleasant, and my wants are few,” replied Beulah.

“Have you seen Eugene recently?”

“Not since his marriage.”

A bitter laugh escaped Cornelia’s lips, as she writhed an instant, and then said: 

“I knew how it would be.  I shall not live to see the end, but you will.  Ha, Beulah! already he has discovered his mistake.  I did not expect it so soon; I fancied Antoinette had more policy.  She has dropped the mask.  He sees himself wedded to a woman completely devoid of truth; he knows her now as she is—­as I tried to show him she was before it was too late; and, Beulah, as I expected, he has grown reckless—­desperate.  Ah, if you could have witnessed a scene at the St. Nicholas, in New York, not long since, you would have wept over him.  He found his bride heartless; saw that she preferred the society of other gentlemen to his; that she lived only for the adulation of the crowd; and one evening, on coming home to the hotel, found she had gone to the opera with a party she knew he detested.  Beulah, it sickens me when I think of his fierce railings,