after his mother died, and he went immediately to Europe.  He was absent two years, and came back so stern, so cynical, so unlike his former self, I scarcely knew him.  Mrs. Chilton took charge of his house from the hour of his separation from Creola; but they were not congenial.  He was vastly her superior, save in intellect, which none of the Hartwell family ever lacked.  My husband is very much attached to Guy; thinks he has not an equal, yet mourns over the blight which fell upon him in the very morn of his glorious manhood.  About a year after his return from Europe he took you to his house as an adopted child.  I wondered at it, for I knew how imbittered his whole soul had become.  But the heart must have an idol; he was desolate and miserable, and took you home to have something to love and interest him.  You never knew him in the prime of his being, for, though comparatively young in years, he had grown prematurely old in feeling before you saw him.  Poor Guy! may a merciful and loving God preserve him wherever he may be, and bring him to a knowledge of that religion which alone can comfort a nature like his—­so noble, so gifted, yet so injured, so imbittered.”

She brushed away the tears that stood on her cheeks, and looked sorrowfully at the portrait of the unfortunate young wife.

Beulah sat with her face partially averted, and her eyes shaded with her hand; once or twice her lips moved, and a shiver ran over her.  She looked up, and said abruptly: 

“Leave the key of this room with me, will you?  I should like to come here occasionally.”

“Certainly; come as often as you choose; and here on this bunch is the key of the melodeon.  Take it also; the instrument needs dusting, I dare say, for it has never been opened since Guy left, nearly five years ago.  There, the clock struck two, and the boat leaves at four; there, too, is my husband’s step.  Come, my dear; we must go down.  Take these keys until I return.”

She gave them to her, and they descended to the dining room, where the doctor awaited them.

“Beulah, what are you going to do with yourself next year?  You must not think of living in that cottage alone.  Since Mrs. Williams’ death you should abandon the thought of keeping house.  It will not do, child, for you to live there by yourself.”  So said the doctor a short time before he bade her adieu.

“I don’t know yet what I shall do.  I am puzzled about a home.”

“You need not be.  Come and live in my house, as I begged you to do long ago.  Alice and I will be heartily glad to have you.  Child, why should you hesitate?”

“I prefer a home of my own, if circumstances permitted it.  You and Mrs. Asbury have been very kind in tendering me a home in your house, and I do most sincerely thank you both for your friendly interest; but I—­”

“Oh, Beulah, I should be so very glad to have you always with me!  My dear child, come.”