“You can go down to your mother now,” said he gravely.

“That means you are tired of me, Uncle Guy!” cried she, saucily shaking her curls over her face.

“Yes, heartily tired of you; take yourself off.”

“Good-by, shadow; I shall come to see you again to-morrow.”  She reached the door, but looked back.

“Uncle, have you seen Charon since you came home?”

“No.”

“Well, he will die if you don’t do something for him.  It is a shame to forget him as you do!” said she indignantly.

“Attend to your own affairs, and do not interfere with mine.”

“It is high time somebody interfered.  Poor Charon!  If Hal doesn’t take better care of him, I will make his mother box his ears; see if I don’t.”

She bounded down the steps, leaving her uncle to smooth his brow at leisure.  Turning to Beulah, he took her hand, and said very kindly: 

“This large room does not suit you.  Come, and I will show you your own little room—­one I have had arranged for you.”  She silently complied, and, leading her through several passages, he opened the door of the apartment assigned her.  The walls were covered with blue and silver paper; the window curtains of white, faced with blue, matched it well, and every article of furniture bespoke lavish and tasteful expenditure.  There was a small writing-desk near a handsome case of books, and a little work-table with a rocking-chair drawn up to it.  He seated Beulah, and stood watching her, as her eyes wandered curiously and admiringly around the room.  They rested on a painting suspended over the desk, and, wrapt in contemplating the design, she forgot for a moment all her sorrows.  It represented an angelic figure winging its way over a valley beclouded and dismal, and pointing, with a radiant countenance, to the gilded summit of a distant steep.  Below, bands of pilgrims, weary and worn, toiled on; some fainting by the wayside, some seated in sullen despair, some in the attitude of prayer, some pressing forward with strained gaze and pale, haggard faces.

“Do you like it?” said Dr. Hartwell.

Perhaps she did not hear him; certainly she did not heed the question; and, taking a seat near one of the windows, he regarded her earnestly.  Her eyes were fastened on the picture, and, raising her hands toward it, she said in broken, indistinct tones: 

“I am dying down in the dark valley; oh, come, help me to toil on to the resting-place.”

Her head sank upon her bosom, and bitter waves lashed her heart once more.

Gradually evening shadows crept on, and at length a soft hand lifted her face, and a musical voice said: 

“Beulah, I want you to come down to my study and make my tea.  Do you feel strong enough?”

“Yes, sir.”  She rose at once and followed him, resolved to seem cheerful.