“Thank you, Beulah.  Did you finish that opera I spoke of some time since?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You found it difficult?”

“Not so difficult as your description led me to imagine.”

“Were you lonely while I was away?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why did not Clara come and stay with you?”

“She was engaged in changing her home; has removed to Mrs. Hoyt’s boarding house.”

“When did you see her last?  How does she bear the blow?”

“I was with her to-day.  She is desponding, and seems to grow more so daily.”

She wondered very much whether he suspected the preference which she felt sure Clara entertained for him; and, as the subject recurred to her, she looked troubled.

“What is the matter?” he asked, accustomed to reading her expressive face.

“Nothing that can be remedied, sir.”

“How do you know that?  Suppose you let me be the judge.”

“You could not judge of it, sir; and, besides, it is no concern of mine.”

A frigid smile fled over his face, and for some time he appeared lost in thought.  His companion was thinking too; wondering how Clara could cope with such a nature as his; wondering why people always selected persons totally unsuited to them; and fancying that if Clara only knew her guardian’s character as well as she did the gentle girl would shrink in dread from his unbending will, his habitual, moody taciturnity.  He was generous and unselfish, but also as unyielding as the Rock of Gibraltar.  There was nothing pleasurable in this train of thought, and, taking up a book, she soon ceased to think of the motionless figure opposite.  No sooner were her eyes once fastened on her book than his rested searchingly on her face.  At first she read without much manifestation of interest, regularly and slowly passing her hand over the black head which Charon had laid on her lap.  After a while the lips parted eagerly, the leaves were turned quickly, and the touches on Charon’s head ceased.  Her long, black lashes could not veil the expression of enthusiastic pleasure.  Another page fluttered over, a flush stole across her brow; and, as she closed the volume, her whole face was irradiated.

“What are you reading?” asked Dr. Hartwell, when she seemed to sink into a reverie.

“Analects from Richter.”

“De Quincey’s!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Once that marvelous ‘Dream upon the Universe’ fascinated me as completely as it now does you.”

Memories of earlier days clustered about him, parting the somber clouds with their rosy fingers.  His features began to soften.

“Sir, can you read it now without feeling your soul kindle?”

“Yes, child; it has lost its interest for me.  I read it as indifferently as I do one of my medical books.  So will you one day.”

“Never!  It shall be a guide-book to my soul, telling of the pathway, arched with galaxies and paved with suns, through which that soul shall pass in triumph to its final rest!”