“Poor Charon; you too miss your master.  Charon, King of Shadows, when will he come?”

The great black eyes gazed intently into hers, and seemed to echo, “When will he come?” He lifted his grim head, snuffed the air, listened, and sullenly dropped his face on his paws again.  Beulah threw herself on the rug, and laid her head on his thick neck; he gave a quick, short bark of satisfaction, and very soon both girl and dog were fast asleep.  A quarter of an hour glided by, and then Beulah was suddenly roused by a violent motion of her pillow.  Charon sprang up, and leaped frantically across the room.  The comb which confined her hair had fallen out, and, gathering up the jetty folds which swept over her shoulders, she looked around.  Dr. Hartwell was closing the door.

“Down, Charon; you ebon scamp!  Down, you keeper of Styx!” He forced down the paws from his shoulders, and patted the shaggy head, while his eyes rested affectionately on the delightful countenance of his sable favorite.  As he threw down his gloves, his eyes fell on Beulah, who had hastily risen from the rug, and he held out his hand, saying

“Ah!  Charon waked you rudely.  How are you?”

“Very well, thank you, sir.  I am so glad you have come home, so glad.”  She took his cold hand between both hers, rubbed it vigorously, and looked up joyfully in his face.  She thought he was paler and more haggard than she had ever seen him, his hair clustered in disorder about his forehead, his whole aspect was weary and wretched.  He suffered her to keep his hand in her warm, tight clasp, and asked kindly.

“Are you well, Beulah?  Your face is flushed, and you feel feverish.”

“Perfectly well.  But you are as cold as an Esquimaux hunter.  Come to the fire.”  She drew his armchair, with its candle-stand and book-board, close to the hearth, and put his warm velvet slippers before him.  She forgot her wounded pride, forgot that he had left without even bidding her good by, and only remembered that he had come home again, that he was sitting there in the study, and she would be lonely no more.  Silently leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes with a sigh of relief.  She felt as if she would like very much to smooth off the curling hair that lay thick and damp on his white, gleaming brow, but dared not.  She stood watching him for a moment, and said considerately.

“Will you have your tea now?  Charon and I had our supper long ago.”

“No, child, I only want to rest.”

Beulah fancied he spoke impatiently.  Had she been too officious in welcoming him to his own home?  She bit her lip with proud vexation, and, taking her geometry, left him.  As she reached the door the doctor called to her.

“Beulah, you need not go away.  This is a better fire than the one in your own room.”  But she was wounded, and did not choose to stay.

“I can study better in my own room.  Good-night, sir.”