CHAPTER V.

Little Johnny’s illness proved long and serious, and for many days and nights he seemed on the verge of the tomb.  His wailings were never hushed except in Beulah’s arms, and, as might be supposed, constant watching soon converted her into a mere shadow of her former self.  Dr. Hartwell often advised rest and fresh air for her, but the silent shake of her head proved how reckless she was of her own welfare.  Thus several weeks elapsed, and gradually the sick child grew stronger.  One afternoon Beulah sat holding him on her knee:  he had fallen asleep, with one tiny hand clasping hers, and while he slept she read.  Absorbed in the volume Eugene had given her, her thoughts wandered on with the author, amid the moldering monuments of Westminster Abbey, and finally the sketch was concluded by that solemn paragraph:  “Thus man passes away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.”  Again she read this sad comment on the vanity of earth and its ephemeral hosts, and her mind was filled with weird images, that looked out from her earnest eyes.  Dr. Hartwell entered unperceived, and stood for some moments at the back of her chair, glancing over her shoulder at the last page.  At length she closed the book, and, passing her hand wearily over her eyes, said audibly: 

“Ah! if we could only have sat down together in that gloomy garret, and had a long talk!  It would have helped us both.  Poor Chatterton!  I know just how you felt, when you locked your door and lay down on your truckle-bed, and swallowed your last draught!”

“There is not a word about Chatterton in that sketch,” said the doctor.

She started, looked up, and answered slowly: 

“No, not a word, not a word.  He was buried among paupers, you know.”

“What made you think of him?”

“I thought that instead of resting in the Abbey, under sculptured marble, his bones were scattered, nobody knows where.  I often think of him.”

“Why?”

“Because he was so miserable and uncared-for; because sometimes I feel exactly as he did.”  As she uttered these words she compressed her lips in a manner which plainly said, “There, I have no more to say, so do not question me.”

He had learned to read her countenance, and as he felt the infant’s pulse, pointed to the crib, saying: 

“You must lay him down now; he seems fast asleep.”

“No, I may as well hold him.”

“Girl, will you follow my directions?” said he sharply.

Beulah looked up at him for a moment, then rose and placed the boy in his crib, while a sort of grim smile distorted her features.  The doctor mixed some medicine, and, setting the glass on the table, put both hands in his pockets and walked up to the nurse.  Her head was averted.

“Beulah, will you be good enough to look at me?” She fixed her eyes proudly on his, and her beautiful teeth gleamed through the parted lips.