“I knew you would come; oh, sir, I knew you would come back to me!”

“How did you know it, child?” he said, for the first time.

Her heart leaped wildly at the sound of the loved voice she had so longed to hear, and she answered tremblingly: 

“Because for weary years I have prayed for your return.  Oh, only God knows how fervently I prayed! and he has heard me.”

She felt his strong frame quiver; he folded his arms about her, clasped her to his heart with a force that almost suffocated her, and, bending his head, kissed her passionately.  Suddenly his arms relaxed their clasp; holding her off, he looked at her keenly, and said: 

“Beulah Benton, do you belong to the tyrant Ambition, or do you belong to that tyrant Guy Hartwell?  Quick, child; decide!”

“I have decided,” said she.  Her cheeks burned; her lashes drooped.

“Well?”

“Well, if I am to have a tyrant, I believe I prefer belonging to you?”

He frowned.  She smiled and looked up at him.

“Beulah, I don’t want a grateful wife.  Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

Just then his eyes rested on the portrait of Creola, which hung opposite.  He drew back a step, and she saw the blood leave his lips, as he gazed upon it.  Lifting his hand, he said sternly: 

“Ah, what pale specters that face calls up from the grim, gray ruins of memory!  Doubtless you know my miserable history.  I married her, thinking I had won her love.  She soon undeceived me.  We separated.  I once asked you to be my wife, and you told me you would rather die.  Child, years have not dealt lightly with me since then.  I am no longer a young man.  Look here!” He threw off his hat, and, passing his fingers through his curling hair, she saw, here and there, streaks of silver.  He watched her as she noted it.  She saw, too, how haggard he looked, now that the light fell full on his pale face.  The splendid, dark eyes were unaltered, and, as they looked down into hers, tears gathered on her lashes, her lips trembled, and, throwing her arms again round his neck, she laid her face on his shoulder.

“Beulah, do you cling to me because you love me? or because you pity me? or because you are grateful to me for past love and kindness?  Answer me, Beulah.”

“Because you are my all.”

“How long have I been your all?”

“Oh, longer than I knew myself!” was the evasive reply.

He tried to look at her, but she pressed her face close to his shoulder and would not suffer it.

“Beulah!”

“Sir.”

“Oh, don’t ‘sir’ me, child!  I want to know the truth, and you will not satisfy me.”

“I have told you the truth.”

“Have you learned that fame is an icy shadow? that gratified ambition cannot make you happy?  Do you love me?”

“Yes.”

“Better than teaching school and writing learned articles?”