as though he scorned himself for the momentary weakness.  He turned suddenly away, and reached the door, but paused to look back.  The old straw bonnet, with its faded pink ribbon, had fallen off, and heavy folds of black hair veiled the bowed face.  He noted the slight, quivering form, and the thin hands, and a look of remorseful agony swept over his countenance.  A deadly pallor settled on cheek and brow, as, with an expression of iron resolve, he retraced his steps, and, putting his hand on the orphan’s shoulder, said gently: 

“Beulah, this is no place for you.  Come with me, child.”

She shrank from his touch, and put up one hand, waving him off.

“Your sister died with the scarlet fever, and Claudia is now very ill with it.  If you stay here you will certainly take it yourself.”

“I hope I shall take it.”

He laid his fingers on the pale, high brow, and, softly drawing back the thick hair, said earnestly:  “Beulah, come home with me.  Be my child; my daughter.”

Again her hand was raised to put him aside.

“No.  You too would hate me for my ugliness.  Let me hide it in the grave with Lilly.  They cannot separate us there.”  He lifted her head; and, looking down into the haggard face, answered kindly: 

“I promise you I will not think you ugly.  I will make you happy.  Come to me, child.”  She shook her head with a moan.  Passing his arm around her, he raised her from the carpet, and leaned her head against him.

“Poor little sufferer! they have made you drink, prematurely, earth’s bitter draughts.  They have disenchanted your childhood of its fairy-like future.  Beulah, you are ill now.  Do not struggle so.  You must come with me, my child.”  He took her in his strong arms, and bore her out of the house of death.  His buggy stood at the door, and, seating himself in it, he directed the boy who accompanied him to “drive home.”  Beulah offered no resistance; she hid her face in her hands, and sat quite still, scarcely conscious of what passed.  She knew that a firm arm held her securely, and, save her wretchedness, knew nothing else.  Soon she was lifted out of the buggy, carried up a flight of steps, and then a flood of light flashed through the fingers upon her closed eyelids.  Dr. Hartwell placed his change on a sofa, and rank the bell.  The summons was promptly answered by a negro woman of middle age.  She stood at the door awaiting the order, but his eyes were bent on the floor, and his brows knitted.

“Master, did you ring?”

“Yes; tell my sister to come to me.”

He took a turn across the floor, and paused by the open window.  As the night air rustled the brown locks on his temples, he sighed deeply.  The door opened, and a tall, slender woman, of perhaps thirty-five years, entered the room.  She was pale and handsome, with a profusion of short chestnut curls about her face.  With her hand resting on the door, she said, in a calm, clear tone: