Several tedious weeks had rolled away since Eugene Graham left his sunny Southern home to seek learning in the venerable universities of the Old World.  Blue-eyed May, the carnival month of the year, had clothed the earth with verdure, and enameled it with flowers of every hue, scattering her treasures before the rushing car of summer.  During the winter scarlet fever had hovered threateningly over the city, but, as the spring advanced, hopes were entertained that all danger had passed.  Consequently, when it was announced that the disease had made its appearance in a very malignant form, in the house adjoining Mrs. Martin’s, she determined to send her children immediately out of town.  A relative living at some distance up the river happened to be visiting her at the time, and, as she intended returning home the following day, kindly offered to take charge of the children until all traces of the disease had vanished.  To this plan Beulah made no resistance, though the memory of her little sister haunted her hourly.  What could she do?  Make one last attempt to see her, and if again refused then it mattered not whither she went.  When the preparations for their journey had been completed, and Johnny slept soundly in his crib, Beulah put on her old straw bonnet, and set out for Mr. Grayson’s residence.  The sun was low in the sky, and the evening breeze, rippling the waters of the bay, stirred the luxuriant foliage of the ancient China trees that bordered the pavements.  The orphan’s heart was heavy with undefined dread; such a dread as had oppressed her the day of her separation from her sister.

     “Coming events cast their shadows before,”

and she was conscious that the sunset glow could not dispel the spectral gloom which enveloped her.  She walked on, with her head bowed, like one stooping from an impending blow, and when at last the crouching lions confronted her she felt as if her heart had suddenly frozen.  There stood the doctor’s buggy.  She sprang up the steps, and stretched out her hand for the bolt of the door.  Long streamers of crape floated through her fingers.  She stood still a moment, then threw open the door and rushed in.  The hall floor was covered to muffle the tread; not a sound reached her save the stirring of the China trees outside.  Her hand was on the balustrade to ascend the steps, but her eyes fell upon a piece of crape fastened to the parlor door, and, pushing it ajar, she looked in.  The furniture was draped; even the mirrors and pictures; and on a small oblong table in the center of the room lay a shrouded form.  An over-powering perfume of crushed flowers filled the air, and Beulah stood on the threshold, with her hands extended, and her eyes fixed upon the table.  There were two children; Lilly might yet live, and an unvoiced prayer went up to God that the dead might be Claudia.  Then like scathing lightning came the recollection of her curse:  “May God answer their prayers as they answered mine.”