He marked the look of unconquerable grief, and, understanding her gesture, made no more inquiries.

Soon after, Mrs. Martin returned, and, having briefly stated what had occurred, and given directions for the child’s treatment, he withdrew.  His low “good-night,” gently spoken to the nurse, was only acknowledged by a slight inclination of the head as he passed her.  Little Johnny was restless, and constantly threatened with a return of the convulsions.  His mother held him on her knee, and telling Beulah she “had been a good, sensible girl to bathe him so promptly,” gave her permission to retire.

“I am not at all sleepy, and would rather stay here and nurse him.  He does not moan so much when I walk with him.  Give him back to me.”

“But you will be tired out.”

“I shall not mind it.”  Stooping down, she lifted the restless boy, and, wrapping his cloak about him, commenced the same noiseless tread.  Thus the night waned; occasionally Mrs. Martin rose and felt her babe’s pulse, and assisted in giving the hourly potions, then reseated herself, and allowed the hireling to walk on.  Once she offered to relieve her, but the arms refused to yield their burden.  A little after four the mother slept soundly in her chair.  Gradually the stars grew dim, and the long, undulating chain of clouds that girded the eastern horizon kindled into a pale orange that transformed them into mountains of topaz.  Pausing by the window, and gazing vacantly out, Beulah’s eyes were suddenly riveted on the gorgeous pageant, which untiring nature daily renews, and she stood watching the masses of vapor painted by coming sunlight, and floating slowly before the wind, until the “King of Day” flashed up and dazzled her.  Mrs. Martin was awakened by the entrance of a servant, and starting up, exclaimed: 

“Bless me!  I have been asleep.  Beulah, how is Johnny?  You must be tired to death.”

“He is sleeping now very quietly; I think he is better; his fever is not so high.  I will take care of him, and you had better take another nap before breakfast.”

Mrs. Martin obeyed the nurse’s injunction, and it was two hours later when she took her child and directed Beulah to get her breakfast.  But the weary girl felt no desire for the meal, and, retiring to her attic room, bathed her eyes and replaited her hair.  Kneeling beside her bed, she tried to pray, but the words died on her lips; and, too miserable to frame a petition, she returned to the chamber where, in sad vigils, she had spent the night.  Dr. Hartwell bowed as she entered, but the head was bent down, and, without glancing at him, she took the fretful, suffering child and walked to the window.  While she stood there her eyes fell upon the loved face of her best friend.  Eugene Graham was crossing the street.  For an instant the burning blood surged over her wan, sickly cheeks, and the pale lips parted in a smile of delight, as she leaned forward to see whether he was coming in.  The door bell rang, and she sprang from the window, unconscious of the piercing eyes fastened upon her.  Hastily laying little Johnny on his mother’s lap, she merely said, “I will be back soon,” and, darting down the steps, met Eugene at the entrance, throwing her arms around his neck and hiding her face on his shoulder.