the silver crescent glittering in the vest, her thoughts wandered to Clara Sanders, and the last letter received from her, telling of a glorious day-star of hope which had risen in her cloudy sky.  Mr. Arlington’s brother had taught her that the dream of her girlhood was but a fleeting fancy, that she could love again more truly than before, and in the summer holidays she was to give him her hand and receive his name.  Beulah rejoiced in her friend’s happiness; but a dim foreboding arose lest, as in Pauline’s case, thorns should spring up in paths where now only blossoms were visible.  Since that letter, so full of complaint and sorrow, no tidings had come from Pauline.  Many months had elapsed, and Beulah wondered more and more at the prolonged silence.  She had written several times, but received no answer, and imagination painted a wretched young wife in that distant parsonage.  Early in spring she learned from Dr. Asbury that Mr. Lockhart had died at his plantation of consumption, and she conjectured that Mrs. Lockhart must be with her daughter.  Beulah half rose, then leaned back against the column, sighed involuntarily, and listened to that “still, small voice of the level twilight behind purple hills.”  Mrs. Williams was asleep, but the tea table waited for her, and in her own room, on her desk, lay an unfinished manuscript which was due the editor the next morning.  She was rigidly punctual in handing in her contributions, cost her what it might; yet now she shrank from the task of copying and punctuating and sat a while longer, with the gentle Southern breeze rippling over her hot brow.  She no longer wrote incognito.  By accident she was discovered as the authoress of several articles commented upon by other journals, and more than once her humble home had been visited by some of the leading literati of the place.  Her successful career thus far inflamed the ambition which formed so powerful an element in her mental organization, and a longing desire for fame took possession of her soul.  Early and late she toiled; one article was scarcely in the hands of the compositor ere she was engaged upon another.  She lived, as it were, in a perpetual brain fever, and her physical frame suffered proportionably.  The little gate opened and closed with a creaking sound, and, hearing a step near her, Beulah looked up and saw her guardian before her.  The light from the dining room fell on his face, and a glance showed her that, although it was pale and inflexible as ever, something of more than ordinary interest had induced this visit.  He had never entered that gate before; and she sprang up and held out both hands with an eager cry.

“Oh, sir, I am so glad to see you once more!”

He took her hands in his and looked at her gravely; then made her sit down again on the step, and said: 

“I suppose you would have died before you could get your consent to send for me?  It is well that you have somebody to look after you.  How long have you had this fever?”