“Madam, you are the matron of this institution, I presume.  I want to see Beulah Benton.”

“Sir, she saw your carriage, and desired me to say to you that, though she was very grateful for your kindness, she did not wish to burden you, and preferred remaining here until she could find some position which would enable her to support herself.  She begs you will not insist upon seeing her; she does not wish to see you.”

“Where is she?  I shall not leave the house until I do see her.”

She saw from his countenance that it was useless to contend.  There was an unbending look of resolve which said plainly, “Tell me where to find her, or I shall search for her at once.”  Secretly pleased at the prospect of reconciliation, the matron no longer hesitated, and, pointing to the staircase, said:  “She is in the first right-hand room.”

He mounted the steps, opened the door, and entered.  Beulah was standing by the window.  She had recognized his step, and knew that he was in the room, but felt as if she would not meet his eye for the universe.  Yet there was in her heart an intense longing to see him again.  During the two past days she had missed his kind manner and grave watchfulness, and now, if she had dared to yield to the impulse that prompted, she would have sprung to meet him and caught his hand to her lips.  He approached, and stood looking at the drooped face; then his soft, cool touch was on her head, and he said in his peculiar low, musical tones: 

“Proud little spirit, come home and be happy.”

She shook her head, saying resolutely: 

“I cannot; I have no home.  I could not be happy in your house.”

“You can be in future.  Beulah, I know the whole truth of this matter.  How I discovered it is no concern of yours—­you have not broken your promise.  Now, mark me; I make your return to my house the condition of my sister’s pardon.  I am not trifling!  If you persist in leaving me, I tell you solemnly I will send her and Pauline out into the world to work for their daily bread, as you want to do!  If you will come back, I will give them a comfortable home of their own wherever they may prefer to live, and see that they are always well cared for.  But they shall not remain in my house whether you come or not.  I am in earnest!  Look at me; you know I never say what I do not mean.  I want you to come back; I ask you to come with me now.  I am lonely; my home is dark and desolate.  Come, my child; come!” He held her hands in his, and drew her gently toward him.  She looked eagerly into his face, and, as she noted the stern sadness that marred its noble beauty, the words of his sister flashed upon her memory:  He had been married!  Was it the loss of his wife that had so darkened his elegant home?—­that gave such austerity to the comparatively youthful face?  She gazed into the deep eyes till she grew dizzy, and answered indistinctly: 

“I have no claim on you—­will not be the means of parting you and your sister.  You have Pauline; make her your child.”