hands; Eugene Graham loved her; and the bleeding tendrils of affection henceforth clasped him as their only support.  She was aroused from her painful reverie by a movement in the crib, and, hastening to her charge, was startled by the appearance of the babe.  The soft blue eyes were rolled up and set, the face of a purplish hue, and the delicate limbs convulsed.  During her residence at the asylum she had more than once assisted the matron in nursing children similarly affected; and now, calling instantly for a tub of water, she soon immersed the rigid limbs in a warm bath, while one of the waiters was dispatched for the family physician.  When Dr. Hartwell entered he found her standing with the infant clasped in her arms, and, as his eyes rested curiously upon her face, she forgot that he was a stranger, and, springing to meet him, exclaimed: 

“Oh, sir; will he die?”

With his fingers on the bounding pulse, he answered: 

“He is very ill.  Where is his mother?  Who are you?”

“His mother is at a concert, and I am his nurse.”

The spasms had ceased, but the twitching limbs told that they might return any moment, and the physician immediately administered a potion.

“How long will Mrs. Martin be absent?”

“It is uncertain.  When shall I give the medicine again?”

“I shall remain until she comes home.”

Beulah was pacing up and down the floor, with Johnny in her arms; Dr. Hartwell stood on the hearth, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece, and watching the slight form as it stole softly to and fro.  Gradually the child became quiet, but his nurse kept up her walk.  Dr. Hartwell said abruptly: 

“Sit down, girl! you will walk yourself into a shadow.”

She lifted her head, shook it in reply, and resumed her measured tread.

“What is your name?”

“Beulah Benton.”

“Beulah!” repeated the doctor, while a smile flitted over his mustached lip.  She observed it, and exclaimed, with bitter emphasis: 

“You need not tell me it is unsuitable; I know it; I feel it.  Beulah!  Beulah!  Oh, my father!  I have neither sunshine nor flowers, nor hear the singing of birds, nor the voice of the turtle.  You ought to have called me Marah.”

“You have read the ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’ then?” said he, with a searching glance.

Either she did not hear him, or was too entirely engrossed by painful reflection to frame an answer.  The despairing expression settled upon her face, and the broken threads of memory wove on again.

“Beulah, how came you here in the capacity of nurse?”

“I was driven here by necessity.”

“Where are your parents and friends?”

“I have none.  I am alone in the world.”

“How long have you been so dependent?”

She raised her hand deprecatingly, nay commandingly, as though she had said: 

“No more.  You have not the right to question, nor I the will to answer.”