“Fourteen to-day!  Only three more years at school, and then I shall step out a brilliant young lady, the—­”

“There; be quiet; sit down.  I would almost as soon select a small whirlwind for a companion.  Can’t you learn to enter a room without blustering like a March wind or a Texan norther?” asked her uncle.

“Have you all seen a ghost?  You look as solemn as grave-diggers.  What ails you, Beulah?  Come along to breakfast.  How nice you look in your new clothes!” Her eyes ran over the face and form of the orphan.

“Pauline, hush! and eat your breakfast.  You annoy your uncle,” said her mother severely.

“Oh, do, for gracious’ sake, let me talk!  I feel sometimes as if I should suffocate.  Everything about this house is so demure, and silent, and solemn, and Quakerish, and hatefully prim.  If ever I have a house of my own, I mean to paste in great letters over the doors and windows, ‘Laughing and talking freely allowed!’ This is my birthday, and I think I might stay at home.  Mother, don’t forget to have the ends of my sash fringed, and the tops of my gloves trimmed.”  Draining her small china cup, she sprang up from the table, but paused beside Beulah.

“By the by, what are you going to wear to-night, Beulah?”

“I shall not go into the parlors at all,” answered the latter.

“Why not?” said Dr. Hartwell, looking suddenly up.  He met the sad, suffering expression of the gray eyes, and bit his lip with vexation.  She saw that he understood her feelings, and made no reply.

“I shall not like it, if you don’t come to my party,” said Pauline slowly; and as she spoke she took one of the orphan’s hands.

“You are very kind, Pauline; but I do not wish to see strangers.”

“But you never will know anybody if you make such a nun of yourself.  Uncle Guy, tell her she must come down into the parlors to-night.”

“Not unless she wishes to do so.  But, Pauline, I am very glad that you have shown her you desire her presence.”  He put his hand on her curly head, and looked with more than usual affection at the bright, honest face.

“Beulah, you must get ready for school.  Come down as soon as you can.  Pauline will be waiting for you.”  Mrs. Chilton spoke in the calm, sweet tone peculiar to her and her brother, but to Beulah there was something repulsive in that even voice, and she hurried from the sound of it.  Kneeling beside her bed, she again implored the Father to restore Eugene to her, and, crushing her grief and apprehension down into her heart, she resolved to veil it from strangers.  As she walked on by Pauline’s side, only the excessive paleness of her face and drooping of her eyelashes betokened her suffering.

Entering school is always a disagreeable ordeal, and to a sensitive nature, such as Beulah’s, it was torturing.  Madam St. Cymon was a good-natured, kind, little body, and received her with a warmth and cordiality which made amends in some degree for the battery of eyes she was forced to encounter.