“I thought you were at your office.  Cornelia, what on earth have you done with my riding whip? you mischievous little wretch!  You lost it once before.  Go find it; I am waiting for it.  Go this instant!”

“I don’t know where it is,” returned the child, making no effort to leave her father’s arms.

Eugene glanced up at his wife; his eyes wandered over her becoming and beautiful dress, then went back to the sunny face of his child.

An angry flush dyed Antoinette’s cheeks as she observed her daughter’s indifference.

“Where is my whip?  I say.  Flora saw you with it yesterday, whipping that hobby-horse.  I told you to keep your hands off of it, didn’t I?  If you don’t go and find it quick, I’ll box you soundly, you meddlesome little brat!”

“I haven’t had it since you told me I shouldn’t play with it.  Flora tells a story,” answered Cornelia, sobbing.

“You did have it!” cried the angry mother, shaking her hand threateningly.

“Did you see her with it?” asked Eugene, rising, with the child in his arms.

“I know she had it!”

“Did you see her with it, I asked you?”

“No; but Flora did, and that is all the same; besides, I—­”

“Here is the whip, ma’am.  I found it last week in the hall, behind a chair, and put it in the cane stand.  The last time you went to ride, you put it and your gloves on a chair in the hall, and went into the parlor to see some company.  Flora picked up the gloves and carried them upstairs, but didn’t see the whip.”

John, the dining-room servant, handed her a small whip, with mother-of-pearl handle, inlaid with gold.

“It is no such thing!” cried Mrs. Graham, gathering up the folds of her habit and coloring with vexation.

John shrugged his shoulders and retired, and his mistress sailed out to the front door, where her horse and her escort awaited her.

“Run and get your hat and cape, Cornelia; I see the buggy coming round the corner.”

Eugene wiped away the teardrops glittering on her rosy cheeks, and she sprang off to obey him; while, in the interim, he sent for Flora, and gave her to understand that he would allow no repetition of the deception he had accidentally discovered.  The maid retired, highly incensed, of course, and resolved to wreak vengeance on both John and Cornelia; and Eugene took his seat in the buggy in no particularly amiable mood.  They found Beulah in her little flower gaiden, pruning some luxuriant geraniums.  She threw down her knife and hastened to meet them, and all three sat down on the steps.

Four years had brought sorrow to that cottage home; had hushed the kind accents of the matron; stilled the true heart that throbbed so tenderly for her orphan charge, and had seen her laid to rest in a warm, grassy slope of the cemetery.  She died peaceably three months before the day of which I write; died exhorting Eugene and Beulah so to pass the season of probation that they might be reunited beyond the grave.  In life she had humbly exemplified the teachings of our Saviour, and her death was a triumphant attestation of the joy and hope which only the Christian religion can afford in the final hour.