“I don’t know, really.  Mrs. Grayson has a brother living somewhere up the country; I suppose he will offer them a home, such as he has.  I pity her.  She is a weak creature,—­weak, mind and body,—­and this reverse will come very near killing her.”

For some days nothing was discussed but the “Grayson tragedy.”  It was well the unhappy man could not listen to the fierce maledictions of disappointed creditors and the slanders which were now heaped upon his name.  Whatever his motives might have been, the world called his offenses by the darkest names, and angry creditors vowed every knife, fork, and spoon should come under the hammer.  The elegant house was sold—­the furniture with it; and Mrs. Grayson and Claudia removed temporarily to a boarding house.  Not one of their fashionable intimates approached them—­no, not one.  When Claudia went one day to her mantuamaker to have her mourning fitted, she met a couple of ladies who had formerly been constant visitors at the house and regular attendants at her parties.  Unsuspectingly she hastened to meet them, but, to her astonishment, instead of greeting her in their usual fawning manner, they received her with a very cold bow, just touched the tips of her fingers, and, gathering up their robes, swept majestically from the room.  Rage and mortification forced the tears into her eyes.

Mrs. Asbury had never admired Mrs. Grayson’s character; she visited her formally about twice a year; but now, in this misfortune, she alone called to see her.  When Claudia returned from the mantuamaker’s she found Mrs. Asbury with her mother, and received from her hand a kind, friendly note from the girl she had so grossly insulted.  Beulah was no flatterer; she wrote candidly and plainly; said she would have called at once had she supposed her company would be acceptable.  She would gladly come and see Claudia whenever she desired to see her, and hoped that the memory of other years would teach her the sincerity of her friendship.  Claudia wept bitterly as she read it, and vainly regretted the superciliousness which had alienated one she knew to be noble and trustworthy.  She was naturally an impulsive creature, and, without a moment’s hesitation, dashed off an answer, all blurred with tears, begging Beulah to overlook her “foolishness” and come to see her.

Accordingly, after school, Beulah went to the house where they were boarding.  Claudia met her rather awkwardly, but Beulah kissed her as if nothing had ever occurred to mar their intercourse; and, after some desultory conversation, asked her what they expected to do.

“Heaven only knows! starve, I suppose.”  She spoke gloomily, and folded her soft white hands over each other, as if the idea of work was something altogether foreign to her mind.

“But, Claudia, I reckon you hardly expect to starve,” answered Beulah, who could not forbear smiling.