“Has Hartwell been here lately?”

“Yes; he was here last week.”

“Did he tell you of his whim about traveling East?”

“Yes; he told me.”

“Beulah, take care what you are about!  You are working mischief not easily rectified.  Child, keep Guy at home!”

“He is master of his own movements, and you know his stubborn will.  I would keep him here if I could; but I have no influence.”

“All fiddlesticks!  I know better!  I am neither a bat nor a mole.  Beulah, I warn you; I beg you, child, mind how you act.  Once entirely estranged, all the steam of Christendom could not force him back.  Don’t let him go; if you do, the game is up, I tell you now.  You will repent your own work, if you do not take care.  I told him he was a fool to leave such a position as his and go to dodging robbers in Eastern deserts; whereupon he looked as bland and impenetrable as if I had compared him to Solomon.  There, go back to your company, end mind what I say; don’t let Guy go.”

He left her; and, though she exerted herself to entertain her guests, Mr. Lindsay saw that her mind was troubled and her heart oppressed.  He endeavored to divert her thoughts, by introducing various topics; and she talked and smiled, and even played and sang, yet the unlifting cloud lay on her brow.  The evening seemed strangely long, and she accompanied her visitors to the door with a sensation of relief.  At parting Mr. Lindsay took her hand, and said in a low voice: 

“May I come whenever I am in your city?”

“Certainly; I shall be pleased to see you when you have leisure,” she replied hurriedly.

“I shall avail myself of your permission, I assure you.”

She had often heard Dr. Asbury speak with fond pride of this nephew; and, as Eugene had also frequently mentioned him in his early letters from Heidelberg, she felt that he was scarcely a stranger, in the ordinary acceptation of the term.  To her, his parting words seemed merely polite, commonplace forms; and, with no thought of a future acquaintance, she dismissed him from her mind, which was too painfully preoccupied to dwell upon the circumstances of his visit.

A few days passed, and one Saturday morning she sat in the dining room, finishing a large drawing upon which she had for months expended all her leisure moments.  It was designed from a description in “Queen Mab,” and she took up her crayon to give the final touch, when heavy steps in the hall arrested her attention, and, glancing toward the door, she saw Hal, Dr. Hartwell’s driver, with a wooden box on his shoulder and Charon by his side.  The latter barked with delight, and sprang to meet the girl, who had hastily risen.

“How do you do, Miss Beulah?  It is many a day since I have seen you, and you look worse of wear too.  Haven’t been sick, have you?” said Hal, sliding the box down on the floor.

“Not exactly sick, but not so well as usual,” she answered, passing her trembling hands over the dog’s head.