Cornelia was leaning listlessly against Clara’s desk, and Beulah fancied she looked very sad and abstracted.  She colored at the jest, and answered contemptuously: 

“He is no beau of mine, let me tell you; and as for manners, I commend him to your merciful tuition.”

“But what was your excuse?” persisted Pauline.

“I should think you might conjecture that I felt no inclination to go to parties and dance when you know that we are all so anxious about my brother.”

“Oh, I did not think of that!” cried the heedless girl, and quite as heedlessly she continued: 

“I want to see that brother of yours.  Uncle Guy says he is the handsomest boy in the city, and promises to make something extraordinary.  Is he so very handsome?”

“Yes.”  The proud lip trembled.

“I heard Anne Vernon say she liked him better than all her other beaux, and that is great praise, coming from her queenship,” said Emily Wood, who stood near.

Cornelia’s eyes dilated angrily, as she answered with curling lips: 

“Eugene one of her beaux!  It is no such thing.”

“You need not look so insulted.  I suppose if the matter is such a delicate one with you, Anne will withdraw her claim,” sneered Emily, happy in the opportunity afforded of wounding the haughty spirit whom all feared and few sympathized with.

Cornelia was about to retort, but madam’s voice prevented, as, leaning from the platform opposite, she held out a note, and said: 

“Miss Graham, a servant has just brought this for you.”

The girl’s face flushed and paled alternately, as she received the note and broke the seal with trembling fingers.  Glancing over the contents, her countenance became irradiated, and she exclaimed joyfully: 

“Good news!  The ‘Morning Star’ has arrived at Amsterdam.  Eugene is safe in Germany.”

Beulah’s head went down on her desk, and just audible were the words: 

“My Father in Heaven, I thank thee!”

Only Clara and Cornelia heard the broken accents, and they looked curiously at the bowed figure, quivering with joy.

“Ah!  I understand; this is the asylum Beulah I have often heard him speak of.  I had almost forgotten the circumstance.  You knew him very well, I suppose?” said Cornelia, addressing herself to the orphan, and crumpling the note between her fingers, while her eyes ran with haughty scrutiny over the dress and features before her.

“Yes, I knew him very well.”  Beulah felt the blood come into her cheeks, and she ill brooked the cold, searching look bent upon her.

“You are the same girl that he asked my father to send to the public school.  How came you here?”

A pair of dark gray eyes met Cornelia’s gaze, and seemed to answer defiantly, “What is it to you?”

“Has Dr. Hartwell adopted you?  Pauline said so, but she is so heedless that I scarcely believed her, particularly when it seemed so very improbable.”