“What business is it of yours?” began Claudia; but Beulah’s sensitive nature shrank from observation, and, rising hastily, she took Claudia to her bosom, kissed her, and turned away.

“Oh, Beulah! shan’t I see you again?” cried the latter, with streaming eyes.

“Claudia, your mamma would not be willing.”

“I don’t care what she thinks.  Please come to see me—­please, do!  Beulah, you don’t love me now, because Lilly is dead!  Oh, I could not keep her—­God took her!”

“Yes, I do love you, Claudy—­more than ever; but you must come to see me.  I cannot go to that house again.  I can’t see your mamma Grayson.  Come and see me, darling!”

She drew her bonnet over her face and hurried out.

“Where do you live?  I will come and see you!” cried Claudia, running after the retreating form.

“She lives at Dr. Hartwell’s—­that large, brick house, out on the edge of town; everybody knows the place.”

Pauline turned back to give this piece of information, and then hastened on to join Beulah.  She longed to inquire into all the particulars of the orphan’s early life; but the pale, fixed face gave no encouragement to question, and they walked on in perfect silence until they reached the gate at the end of the avenue.  Then Pauline asked energetically: 

“Is that little one any kin to you?”

“No; I have no kin in this world,” answered Beulah drearily.

Pauline shrugged her shoulders, and made no further attempt to elicit confidence.  On entering the house, they encountered the doctor, who was crossing the hall.  He stopped, and said: 

“I have glad tidings for you, Beulah.  The ‘Morning Star’ arrived safely at Amsterdam, and by this time Eugene is at Heidelberg.”

Beulah stood very near him, and answered tremblingly: 

“Yes, sir; I heard it at school.”

He perceived that something was amiss, and, untying her bonnet, looked searchingly at the sorrow-stained face.  She shut her eyes, and leaned her head against him.

“What is the matter, my child?  I thought you would be very happy in hearing of Eugene’s safety.”

She was unable to reply just then; and Pauline, who stood swinging her sachel to and fro, volunteered an explanation.

“Uncle Guy, she is curious, that is all.  As we were leaving school, she met a little girl on the steps, and they flew at each other, and cried, and kissed, and—­you never saw anything like it!  I thought the child must be a very dear relation; but she says she has no kin.  I don’t see the use of crying her eyes out, particularly when the little one is nothing to her.”

Her uncle’s countenance resumed its habitual severity, and, taking Beulah’s hand, he led her into that quietest of all quiet places, his study.  Seating himself, and drawing her to his side, he said: