“Nothing ails me; I am well—­”

“I know better!  Has Charon gone mad and bit you?  Oho! by all the dead gods of Greece, Guy has come home.  Where is he?  Where is he?”

He sprang up, nearly knocking his wife down, and looked around the room.  Dr. Hartwell emerged from the music room and advanced to meet him.

“Oh, Guy!  You heathen! you Philistine! you prodigal!”

He bounded over a chair and locked his arms round the tall form, while his gray head dropped on his friend’s shoulder.  Beulah stole out quickly, and, in the solitude of her own room, fell on her knees and returned thanks to the God who hears and answers prayer.

CHAPTER XLI.

It was a sparkling August morning—­one of those rare days when all nature seems jubilant.  The waters of the bay glittered like a sheet of molten silver; the soft Southern breeze sang through the treetops, and the cloudless sky wore that deep shade of pure blue which is nowhere so beautiful as in our sunny South.  Clad in a dress of spotless white, with her luxuriant hair braided and twined with white flowers, Beulah stood beside her window, looking out into the street below.  Her hands were clasped tightly over her heart, and on one slender finger blazed a costly diamond, the seal of her betrothal.  She was very pale; now and then her lips quivered, and her lashes were wet with tears.  Yet this was her marriage day.  She had just risen from her knees, and her countenance told of a troubled heart.  She loved her guardian above everything else; knew that, separated from him, life would be a dreary blank to her; yet, much as she loved him, she could not divest herself of a species of fear, of dread.  The thought of being his wife filled her with vague apprehension.  He had hastened the marriage; the old place had been thoroughly repaired and refurnished, and this morning she would go home a wife.  She clasped her hands over her eyes; the future looked fearful.  She knew the passionate, exacting nature of the man with whose destiny she was about to link her own, and she shrank back, as the image of Creola rose before her.  The door opened, and Mrs. Asbury entered, accompanied by Dr. Hartwell.  The orphan looked up, and leaned heavily against the window.  Mrs. Asbury broke the silence.

“They are waiting for you, my dear.  The minister came some moments ago.  The clock has struck ten.”

She handed her a pair of gloves from the table, and stood in the door, waiting for her.  Beulah drew them on, and then, with a long breath, glanced at Dr. Hartwell.  He looked restless, and, she thought, sterner, than she had seen him since his return.  He was very pale and his lips were compressed firmly.

“You look frightened, Beulah.  You tremble,” said he, drawing her arm through his and fixing his eyes searchingly on her face.  “Yes.  Oh, yes.  I believe I am frightened,” she answered, with a constrained smile.