“Do not repeat your voyage of discovery, or perhaps your bridal anticipations may prove an egregious failure.  Do you understand me?”

“I have not finished the first.  Mother played pirate, and carried me off before I was half satisfied.  Uncle Guy, take me under your flag, do!  I will not worry the little thing—­I promise you I will not.  Can’t I stay here a while?” He smiled, and put his hand on her head, saying: 

“I am inclined to try you.  May, you can leave her here.  I will send her to you after a little.”  As he spoke, he drew her up to the orphan.  Beulah looked at them an instant, then averted her head.

“Beulah, this is my niece, Pauline Chilton; and, Pauline, this is my adopted child, Beulah Benton.  You are about the same age, and can make each other happy, if you will.  Beulah, shake hands with my niece.”  She put up her pale, slender fingers, and they were promptly clasped in Pauline’s plump palm.

“Do stop crying, and look at me.  I want to see you,” said the latter.

“I am not crying.”

“Then what are you hiding your face for?”

“Because it is so ugly,” answered the orphan sadly.

Pauline stooped down, took the head in her hands, and turned the features to view.  She gave them a searching examination, and then, looking up at her uncle, said bluntly: 

“She is not pretty, that is a fact; but, somehow, I rather like her.  If she did not look so doleful, and had some blood in her lips, she would pass well enough; don’t you think so?”

Dr. Hartwell did not reply; but, raising Beulah from the floor, placed her in the chair she had vacated some time before.  She did, indeed, look “doleful,” as Pauline expressed it, and the beaming, lovely face of the latter rendered her wan aspect more apparent.

“What have you been doing all day?” said the doctor kindly.

She pointed to the asylum, and answered in a low, subdued tone: 

“Thinking about my past life—­all my misfortunes.”

“You promised you would do so no more.”

“Ah, sir! how can I help it?”

“Why, think of something pleasant, of course,” interrupted Pauline.

“You never had any sorrows; you know nothing of suffering,” replied Beulah, allowing her eyes to dwell on the fine, open countenance before her—­a mirthful, sunny face, where waves of grief had never rippled.

“How came you so wise?  I have troubles sometimes, just like everbody else.”

Beulah shook her head dubiously.

“Pauline, will you try to cheer this sad little stranger? will you be always kind in your manner, and remember that her life has not been as happy as yours?  Can’t you love her?”

She shrugged her shoulders, and answered evasively: 

“I dare say we will get on well enough, if she will only quit looking so dismal and graveyardish.  I don’t know about loving her; we shall see.”