The strong, stern man shuddered, as she looked up at him with an expression of hopeless desolation, and said slowly: 

“I have nothing but misery to think of.”

“Have you forgotten Eugene so soon?”

For an instant the eyes lighted up; then the long lashes swept her cheeks, and she murmured: 

“Eugene; he has left me too; something will happen to him also.  I never loved anything but trouble came upon it.”

Dr. Hartwell smiled grimly, as though unconsciously she had turned to view some page in the history of his own life.

“Beulah, you must not despond; Eugene will come back an elegant young man before you are fairly out of short dresses.  There, do not talk any more, and don’t cry.  Try to sleep, and remember, child, you are homeless and friendless no longer.”  He pressed her hand kindly, and turned toward the door.  It opened, and Mrs. Chilton entered.

“Good-morning, Guy; how is your patient?” said she blandly.

“Good-morning, May; my little patient is much better.  She has been talking to me, and I am going to send her some breakfast.”  He put both hands on his sister’s shoulders, and looked down into her beautiful eyes.  She did not flinch, but he saw a grayish hue settle around her lips.

“Ah!  I thought last night there was little hope of her recovery.  You are a wonderful doctor, Guy; almost equal to raising the dead.”  Her voice was even, and, like his own, marvelously sweet.

“More wonderful still, May; I can read the living.”  His mustached lip curled, as a scornful smile passed over his face.

“Read the living?  Then you can understand and appreciate my pleasure at this good news.  Doubly good, because it secures Pauline’s return to-day.  Dear child, I long to have her at home again.”  An expression of anxious maternal solicitude crossed her features.  Her brother kept his hand on her shoulder, and as his eye fell on her glossy auburn curls, he said, half musingly: 

“Time touches you daintily, May; there is not one silver footprint on your hair.”

“He has dealt quite as leniently with you.  But how could I feel the inroads of time, shielded as I have been by your kindness?  Cares and sorrows bleach the locks oftener than accumulated years; and you, Guy, have most kindly guarded your poor widowed sister.”

“Have I indeed, May?”

“Ah! what would become of my Pauline and me, but for your generosity, your—­”

“Enough!  Then, once for all, be kind to yonder sick child; if not for her sake, for your own.  You and Pauline can aid me in making her happy, if you will.  And if not, remember, May, you know my nature.  Do not disturb Beulah now; come down and let her be quiet.”  He led her down the steps, and then, throwing open a glass door, stepped out upon a terrace covered with Bermuda grass and sparkling like a tiara in the early sunlight.  Mrs. Chilton watched him descend the two white marble steps leading down to the flower beds, and, leaning against the wall, she muttered: