“Tell me not in mournful numbers,
      Life is but an empty dream;
      For the soul is dead that slumbers,
      And things are not what they seem.”

It was wonderful what power and sweetness there was in her voice; burst after burst of rich melody fell from her trembling lips.  Her soul echoed the sentiments of the immortal bard, and she repeated again and again the fifth verse: 

    “In the world’s broad field of battle,
     In the bivouac of life;
     Be not like dumb, driven cattle,
     Be a hero in the strife.”

Intuitively she seemed to feel that an hour of great trial was at hand, and this was a girding for the combat.  With the shield of a warm, hopeful heart, and the sword of a strong, unfaltering will, she awaited the shock; but as she concluded her song the head bowed itself upon her arms, the shadow of the unknown, lowering future had fallen upon her face, and only the Great Shepherd knew what passed the pale lips of the young orphan.  She was startled by the sharp bark of a dog, and, looking up, saw a gentleman leaning against a neighboring tree, and regarding her very earnestly.  He came forward as she perceived him, and said with a pleasant smile: 

“You need not be afraid of my dog.  Like his master, he would not disturb you till you finished your song.  Down, Carlo; be quiet, sir.  My little friend, tell me who taught you to sing.”

She had hastily risen, and a slight glow tinged her cheek at his question.  Though naturally reserved and timid, there was a self-possession about her unusual in children of her age, and she answered in a low voice, “I have never had a teacher, sir; but I listen to the choir on Sabbath, and sing our Sunday-school hymns at church.”

“Do you know who wrote those words you sang just now?  I was not aware they had been set to music.”

“I found them in this book yesterday, and liked them so much that I tried to sing them by one of our hymn tunes.”  She held up the volume as she spoke.

He glanced at the title, and then looked curiously at her.  Beulah chanced just then to turn toward the asylum, and saw one of the oldest girls running across the common.  The shadow on her face deepened, and she looked around for Claudia and Lillian.  They had tired of sliding, and were busily engaged picking up pine burrs at some little distance in the rear.

“Come, Claudy—­Lilly—­our matron has sent for us; come, make haste.”

“Do you belong to the asylum?” asked the gentleman, shaking the ashes from his cigar.

“Yes, sir,” answered she, and, as the children came up, she bowed and turned homeward.

“Wait a moment.  Those are not your sisters, certainly?” His eyes rested with unfeigned admiration on their beautiful faces.

“This one is, sir; that is not.”  As she spoke she laid her hand on Lillian’s head.  Claudia looked shyly at the stranger, and then, seizing Beulah’s dress, exclaimed: