“Do you know that Eugene is going away very soon, to be absent at least five years?”

An incredulous smile flitted over her face, but the ashen hue of death settled there.

“I am in earnest.  He leaves for Europe next week, to be gone a long time.”

She extended her hands pleadingly, and said in a hoarse whisper: 

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure; his passage is already engaged in a packet that will sail early next week.  What will become of you in his absence?”

The strained eyes met his, vacantly; the icy hands dropped, and she fell forward against him.

Guy Hartwell placed the slight, attenuated form on the sofa, and stood with folded arms looking down at the colorless face.  His high white brow clouded, and a fierce light kindled in his piercing dark eyes, as through closed teeth came the rather indistinct words: 

“It is madness to indulge the thought; I was a fool to dream of it.  She would prove heartless, like all of her sex, and repay me with black ingratitude.  Let her fight the battle of life unaided.”

He sprinkled a handful of water on the upturned face, and in a few minutes saw the eyelids tremble, and knew from the look of suffering that with returning consciousness came the keen pangs of grief.  She covered her face with her hands, and, after a little while, asked: 

“Shall I ever see him again?”

“He will come here to-night to tell you about his trip.  But what will become of you in his absence?—­answer me that!”

“God only knows!”

Dr. Hartwell wrote the directions for Johnny’s medicine, and, placing the slip of paper on the glass, took his hat and left the room.  Beulah sat with her head pressed against the foot of the crib--stunned, taking no note of the lapse of time.

                             “Twilight gray
     Had in her sober livery all things clad.”

The room had grown dark, save where a mellow ray stole through the western window.  Beulah rose mechanically, lighted the lamp, and shaded it so as to shield the eyes of the sleeping boy.  The door was open, and, glancing up, she saw Eugene on the threshold.  Her arms were thrown around him, with a low cry of mingled joy and grief.

“Oh, Eugene! please don’t leave me!  Whom have I in the world but you?”

“Beulah, dear, I must go.  Only think of the privilege of being at a German university!  I never dreamed of such a piece of good luck.  Don’t cry so; I shall come back some of these days, such an erudite, such an elegant young man, you will hardly know me.  Only five years.  I am almost seventeen now; time passes very quickly, and you will scarcely miss me before I shall be at home again.”

He lifted up her face, and laughed gayly as he spoke.

“When are you to go?”

“The vessel sails Wednesday—­three days from now.  I shall be very busy until then.  Beulah, what glorious letters I shall write you from the Old World!  I am to see all Europe before I return; that is, my father says I shall.  He is coming on, in two or three years, with Cornelia, and we are all to travel together.  Won’t it be glorious?”