“How is she?”

“She did not eat much, sir, and seems so downhearted.”

“That will do.  I will ring when you are needed.”

Dr. Hartwell seated himself on the edge of the bed, and, lifting the child’s head to his bosom, drew away the hands that shaded her face.

“Beulah, are you following my directions?”

“Oh, sir! you are very kind; but I am too wretched, too miserable, even to thank you.”

“I do not wish you to thank me.  All I desire is that you will keep quiet for a few days, till you grow strong, and not lie here sobbing yourself into another fever.  I know you have had a bitter lot in life so far, and memories are all painful with you; but it is better not to dwell upon the past.  Ah, child! it is well to live only in the present, looking into the future.  I promise you I will guard you, and care for you as tenderly as a father; and now, Beulah, I think you owe it to me to try to be cheerful.”

He passed his fingers softly over her forehead, and put back the tangled masses of jetty hair, which long neglect had piled about her face.  The touch of his cool hand, the low, musical tones of his voice, were very soothing to the weary sufferer, and, with a great effort, she looked up into the deep, dark eyes. saying brokenly: 

“Oh, sir, how good you are!  I am—­very grateful—­to you—­indeed, I—­ "

“There, my child, do not try to talk; only trust me, and be cheerful.  It is a pleasure to me to have you here, and know that you will always remain in my house.”

How long he sat there, she never knew, for soon she slept, and when hours after she waked, the lamp was burning dimly, and only Harriet was in the room.  A week passed, and the girl saw no one except the nurse and physician.  One sunny afternoon she looped back the white curtains, and sat down before the open window.  Harriet had dressed her in a blue calico wrapper, which made her wan face still more ghastly, and the folds of black hair, which the gentle fingers of the kind nurse had disentangled, lay thick about her forehead, like an ebon wreath on the brow of a statue.  Her elbows rested on the arms of the easy-chair, and the weary head leaned upon the hands.  Before her lay the flower garden, brilliant and fragrant; further on a row of Lombardy poplars bounded the yard, and beyond the street stretched the west common.  In the distance rose a venerable brick building, set, as it were, in an emerald lawn, and Beulah looked only once, and knew it vas the asylum.  It was the first time she had seen it since her exodus, and the long-sealed fountain could no longer be restrained.  Great hot tears fell over the bent face, and the frail form trembled violently.  For nearly fourteen years that brave spirit had battled, and borne, and tried to hope for better things.  With more than ordinary fortitude, she had resigned herself to the sorrows that came thick and fast upon her, and, trusting in