“No, Eugene; call her not after me, lest some of my sorrows come upon her young head.  Oh, no! name her not Beulah; let her be called Cornelia.  I would not have her soul shrouded as mine has been.”  Beulah spoke vehemently, and, laying her hand on his arm, she added: 

“Eugene, to-day you will leave me and go back to your own house, to your family; but before you go, I ask you, if not for your sake, for that of your child, to promise me solemnly that you will never again touch intoxicating drinks of any kind.  Oh, will you promise?  Will you reform entirely?”

There was a brief pause, and he answered slowly: 

“I promise, Beulah.  Nay, my friend, I swear I will abstain in future.  Ah, I will never disgrace my angel child!  Never, so help me Heaven!”

The sound of approaching steps interrupted the conversation, and, expecting to see Antoinette and her infant, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Graham, Beulah looked up quickly, and perceived Mr. Lindsay.

“Does my advent startle you, that you look so pale and breathless?” said he, smiling as he took her hand.

“I am certainly very much surprised to see you here, sir.”

“And I am heartily glad you have come, Reginald,” cried Eugene, returning his friend’s tight clasp.

“I intended coming to nurse you, Graham, as soon as I heard of the accident, but my mother’s illness prevented my leaving home.  I need not ask about your arm; I see it still requires cautious handling; but how are you otherwise?  Regaining your strength, I hope?”

“Yes; gradually.  I am better than I deserve to be, Reginald.”

“That remains to be proved in future, Graham.  Come, get well as rapidly as possible; I have a plan to submit to you, the earliest day you are strong enough to discuss business topics.  Miss Beulah, let me sharpen your pencil.”

He took it from her, trimmed it carefully, and handed it back; then drew her portfolio near him, and glanced over the numerous unfinished sketches.

“I have several books filled with European sketches which, I think, might afford you some pleasure.  They were taken by different persons; and some of the views on the Rhine, and particularly some along the southern shore of Spain, are unsurpassed by any I have seen.  You may receive them some day, after I return.”

“Thank you; I shall copy them with great pleasure.”

“I see you are not as much of a pyrrhonist in art as in philosophy,” said Mr. Lindsay, watching her countenance as she bent over her drawing.

“Who told you, sir, that I was one in any department?” She looked up suddenly, with flashing eyes.

“There is no need to be told.  I can readily perceive it.”

“Your penetration is at fault, then.  Of all others, the charge of pyrrhonism is the last I merit.”

He smiled, and said quietly: 

“What, then, is your aesthetic creed, if I may inquire?”