“Then, how could she marry him?” asked Beulah naively.

“Ha! ha!  I will present you to the Smithsonian Institution as the last embodiment of effete theories.  Who exhumed you, patron saint of archaism, from the charnel-house of centuries?” He looked down at her with an expression of intolerable bitterness and scorn.  Her habitually pale face flushed to crimson, as she answered with sparkling eyes: 

“Not the hand of Diogenes, encumbered with his tub!”

He smiled grimly.

“Know the world as I do, child, and tubs and palaces will be alike to you.  Feel the pulse of humanity, and you will—­”

“Heaven preserve me from looking on life through your spectacles!” cried she impetuously, stung by the contemptuous smile which curled his lips.  “Amen.”  Taking his hands from her shoulder, he threw himself back into his chair.  There was silence for some minutes, and Beulah said: 

“I thought Mr. Lockhart was in Syria?”

“Oh, no; he wants a companion in his jaunt to the Holy Land.  How devoutly May will kneel on Olivet and Moriah!  What pious tears will stain her lovely cheek as she stands in the hall of Pilate, and calls to mind all the thirty years’ history!  Oh, Percy is cruel to subject her tender soul to such torturing associations!  Beulah, go and play something; no matter what.  Anything to hush my cursing mood.  Go, child.”  He turned away his face to hide its bitterness, and, seating herself at the melodeon, Beulah played a German air of which he was very fond.  At the conclusion he merely said: 

“Sing.”

A plaintive prelude followed the command, and she sang.  No description could do justice to the magnificent voice, as it swelled deep and full in its organ-like tones; now thrillingly low in its wailing melody, and now ringing clear and sweet as silver bells.  There were soft, rippling notes that seemed to echo from the deeps of her soul and voice its immensity.  It was wonderful what compass there was, what rare sweetness and purity too.  It was a natural gift, like that conferred on birds.  Art could not produce it, but practice and scientific culture had improved and perfected it.  For three years the best teachers had instructed her, and she felt that now she was mistress of a spell which, once invoked, might easily exorcise the evil spirit which had taken possession of her guardian.  She sang several of his favorite songs, then closed the melodeon and went back to the fire.  Dr. Hartwell’s face lay against the purple velvet lining of the chair, and the dark surface gave out the contour with bold distinctness.  His eyes were closed, and as Beulah watched him she thought, “How inflexible he looks, how like a marble image!  The mouth seems as if the sculptor’s chisel had just carved it—­so stern, so stony.  Ah, he is not scornful now! he looks only sad, uncomplaining, but very miserable.  What has steeled his heart, and made him so unrelenting, so haughty?  What can have isolated him so completely?  Nature lavished on him every gift which could render him the charm of social circles, yet he lives in the seclusion of his own heart, independent of sympathy, contemptuous of the world he was sent to improve and bless.”  These reflections were interrupted by his opening his eyes and saying, in his ordinary, calm tone: