“No news yet; but, May, be sure you do not let—­”

“Was it the ‘Morning Star’?  Is he lost?”

Beulah stood crouching at his side, with her hands extended pleadingly, and her white face convulsed.

“My child, do not look so wretched; the vessel that Eugene sailed in was disabled in a storm, and has not yet reached the place of destination.  But there are numerous ways of accounting for the detention, and you must hope and believe that all is well until you know the contrary.”  He drew her to his side, and stroked her head compassionately.

“I knew it would be so,” said she, in a strangely subdued, passionless tone.

“What do you mean, child?”

“Death and trouble come on everything I love.”

“Perhaps at this very moment Eugene may be writing you an account of his voyage.  I believe that we shall soon hear of his safe arrival.  You need not dive down into my eyes in that way.  I do believe it, for the vessel was seen after the storm, and, though far out of the right track, there is good reason to suppose she has put into some port to be repaired.”

Beulah clasped her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out some horrid phantom, and, while her heart seemed dying on the rack, she resolved not to despair till the certainty came.

“Time enough when there is no hope; I will not go out to meet sorrow.”  With a sudden, inexplicable revulsion of feeling she sank on her knees, and there beside her protector vehemently prayed Almighty God to guard and guide the tempest-tossed loved one.  If her eyes had rested on the face of Deity, and she had felt his presence, her petition could not have been more importunately preferred.  For a few moments Dr. Hartwell regarded her curiously; then his brow darkened, his lips curled sneeringly, and a mocking smile passed over his face.  Mrs. Chilton smiled, too, but there was a peculiar gleam in her eyes, and an uplifting of her brows which denoted anything but pleasurable emotions.  She moved away, and sat down at the head of the table.  Dr. Hartwell put his hand on the shoulder of the kneeling girl, and asked, rather abruptly: 

“Beulah, do you believe that the God you pray to hears you?”

“I do.  He has promised to answer prayer.”

“Then, get up and be satisfied, and eat your breakfast.  You have asked him to save and protect Eugene, and, according to the Bible, He will certainly do it; so no more tears.  If you believe in your God, what are you looking so wretched about?” There was something in all this that startled Beulah, and she looked up at him.  His chilly smile pained her, and she rose quickly, while again and again his words rang in her ear.  Yet, what was there so strange about this application of faith?  True, the Bible declared that “whatsoever ye ask, believing, that ye shall receive,” yet she had often prayed for blessings, and often been denied.  Was it because she had not had the requisite faith, which should have satisfied her?  Yet God knew that she had trusted him.  With innate quickness of perception, she detected the tissued veil of irony which the doctor had wrapped about his attempted consolation, and she looked at him so intently, so piercingly, that he hastily turned away and seated himself at the table.  Just then Pauline bounded into the room, exclaiming: