“Fever!  Why, sir, I have no fever,” she replied, with some surprise.

“Oh, child! are you trying to destroy yourself by your obstinacy?  If so, like most other things you undertake, I suppose you will succeed.”

He held her hands and kept his finger on the quick bounding pulse.  Beulah had not seen him since the night of Cornelia’s death, some months before, and conjectured that Dr. Asbury had told him she was not looking well.

She could not bear the steady, searching gaze of his luminous eyes, and, moving restlessly, said: 

“Sir, what induces you to suppose that I am sick?  I have complained of indisposition to no one.”

“Of course you have not, for people are to believe that you are a gutta-percha automaton.”

She fancied his tone was slightly sneering; but his countenance wore the expression of anxious, protecting interest which she had so prized in days past, and, as her hands trembled in his clasp and his firm hold tightened, she felt that it was useless to attempt to conceal the truth longer.

“I didn’t know I was feverish; but for some time I have daily grown weaker; I tremble when I stand or walk, and am not able to sleep.  That is all.”

He smiled down at her earnest face, and asked: 

“Is that all, child?  Is that all?”

“Yes, sir; all.”

“And here you have been, with a continued, wasting nervous fever for you know not how many days, yet keep on your round of labors without cessation!”

He dropped her hands and folded his arms across his broad chest, keeping his eyes upon her.

“I am not at all ill; but believe I need some medicine to strengthen me.”

“Yes, child; you do, indeed, need a medicine, but it is one you will never take.”

“Try me, sir,” answered she, smiling.

“Try you?  I might as well try to win an eagle from its lonely rocky home.  Beulah, you need rest.  Rest for mind, body, and heart.  But you will not take it; oh, no, of course you won’t!”

He passed his hand over his brow, and swept back the glossy chestnut hair, as if it oppressed him.

“I would willingly take it, sir, if I could; but the summer vacation is still distant, and, besides, my engagements oblige me to exert myself.  It is a necessity with me.”

“Rather say sheer obstinacy,” said he sternly.

“You are severe, sir,” replied Beulah, lifting her head haughtily.

“No; I only call things by their proper names.”

“Very well; if you prefer it, then, obstinacy compels me just now to deny myself the rest you prescribe.”

“Yes; rightly spoken; and it will soon compel you to a long rest, in the quiet place where Cornelia waits for you.  You are a mere shadow now, and a few more months will complete your design.  I have blamed myself more than once that I did not suffer you to die with Lilly, as you certainly would have done had I not tended you so closely.  Your death then would have saved me much care and sorrow, and you many struggles.”