“What is the matter, Beulah?  Do tell me,” said he anxiously.

Briefly she related her fruitless attempt to see Lilly, and pointed out the nature of the barrier which must forever separate them.  Eugene listened with flashing eyes, and several times the word “brutal” escaped his lips.  He endeavored to comfort her by holding out hopes of brighter days, but her eyes were fixed on shadows, and his cheering words failed to call up a smile.  They stood in the hall near the front door, and here Dr. Hartwell found them when he left the sickroom.  Eugene looked up as he approached them, and stepped forward with a smile of recognition to shake the extended hand.  Beulah’s countenance became instantly repellent, and she was turning away when the doctor addressed her: 

“You must feel very much fatigued from being up all night.  I know from your looks that you did not close your eyes.”

“I am no worse looking than usual, thank you,” she replied icily, drawing back as she spoke, behind Eugene.  The doctor left them, and, as his buggy rolled from the door, Beulah seemed to breathe freely again.  Poor child; her sensitive nature had so often been deeply wounded by the thoughtless remarks of strangers, that she began to shrink from all observation, as the surest mode of escaping pain.  Eugene noticed her manner, and, biting his lips with vexation, said reprovingly: 

“Beulah, you were very rude to Dr. Hartwell.  Politeness costs nothing, and you might at least have answered his question with ordinary civility.”

Her eyelids drooped, and a tremor passed over her mouth, as she answered meekly: 

“I did not intend to be rude; but I dread to have people look at or speak to me.”

“Why, pray?”

“Because I am so ugly, and they are sure to show me that they see it.”

He drew his arm protectingly around her, and said gently:  “Poor child; it is cruel to make you suffer so.  But rest assured Dr. Hartwell will never wound your feelings.  I have heard that he was a very stern and eccentric man, though a remarkably learned one, yet I confess there is something in his manner which fascinates me, and if you will only be like yourself he will always speak kindly to you.  But I am staying too long.  Don’t look so forlorn and ghostly.  Positively I hate to come to see you, for somehow your wretched face haunts me.  Here is a book I have just finished; perhaps it will serve to divert your mind.”  He put a copy of Irving’s “Sketch Book” in her hand, and drew on his gloves.

“Oh, Eugene, can’t you stay a little longer—­just a little longer?  It seems such a great while since you were here.”  She looked up wistfully into the handsome, boyish face.

Drawing out an elegant new watch, he held it before her eyes, and answered hurriedly: 

“See there; it is ten o’clock, and I am behind my appointment at the lecture room.  Good-by; try to be cheerful.  ’What can’t be cured must be endured,’ you know, so do not despond, dear Beulah.”  Shaking her hand cordially, he ran down the steps.  The orphan pressed her hands tightly over her brow, as if to stay some sudden, painful thought, and slowly remounted the stairs.