There was a shadow on his face, and his voice had the deep, musical tone which always made her heart thrill.  Her eyelids drooped, as she said sadly: 

“You are unjust.  We meet rarely enough, Heaven knows.  Why do you invariably make these occasions seasons of upbraiding, of taunts and sneers.  Sir, I owe you my life, and more than my life, and never can I forget or cancel my obligations; but are you no longer my friend?”

His whole face lighted up; the firm mouth trembled.

“No, Beulah.  I am no longer your friend.”

She looked up at him, and a quiver crept across her lips.  She had never seen that eager expression in his stern face before.  His dark, fascinating eyes were full of pleading tenderness, and, as she drooped her head on her lap, she knew that Clara was right, that she was dearer to her guardian than anyone else.  A half-smothered groan escaped her, and there was a short pause.

Dr. Hartwell put his hands gently on her bowed head and lifted the face.

“Child, does it surprise you?”

She said nothing, and, leaning her head against him, as she had often done years before, he passed his hand caressingly over the folds of hair, and added: 

“You call me your guardian; make me such.  I can no longer be only your friend; I must either be more, or henceforth a stranger.  My life has been full of sorrow and bitterness, but you can bring sunlight to my home and heart.  You were too proud to be adopted.  Once I asked you to be my child.  Ah!  I did not know my own heart then.  Our separation during the yellow-fever season first taught me how inexpressibly dear you were to me, how entirely you filled my heart.  Now I ask you to be my wife, to give yourself to me.  Oh, Beulah, come back to my cheerless home!  Best your lonely heart, my proud darling.”

“Impossible.  Do not ask it.  I cannot!  I cannot!” cried Beulah, shuddering violently.

“Why not, my little Beulah?”

He clasped his arm around her and drew her close to him, while his head was bent so low that his brown hair touched her cheek.

“Oh, sir, I would rather die!  I should be miserable as your wife.  You do not love me, sir; you are lonely, and miss my presence in your house; but that is not love, and marriage would be a mockery.  You would despise a wife who was such only from gratitude.  Do not ask this of me; we would both be wretched.  You pity my loneliness and poverty, and I reverence you; nay, more, I love you, sir, as my best friend; I love you as my protector.  You are all I have on earth to look to for sympathy and guidance.  You are all I have; but I cannot marry you; oh, no; no! a thousand times, no!” She shrank away from the touch of his lips on her brow, and an expression of hopeless suffering settled upon her face.

He withdrew his arm, and rose.