"I have none of the Shylock in my composition; only give me a few
kind words and I shall be satisfied. Now, once for all, Dr. Asbury,
if you treat me to any more barefaced flattery of this sort, I nurse
no more of your patients."
Dr. Hartwell here directed his partner's attention to Clara, and,
thoroughly provoked at the pertinacity with which he avoided
noticing her, she seized the brief opportunity to visit Mrs. Hoyt
and little Willie. The mother welcomed her with a silent grasp of
the hand and a gush of tears. But this was no time for
acknowledgments, and Beulah strove, by a few encouraging remarks, to
cheer the bereaved parent and interest Willie, who, like all other
children under such circumstances, had grown fretful. She shook up
their pillows, iced a fresh pitcher of water for them, and,
promising to run down and see them often, now that Hal was forced to
give his attention to the last victim, she noiselessly stole back to
Clara's room. Dr. Hartwell was walking up and down the floor, and
his companion sat just as she had left him. He rose as she entered,
and, putting on his hat, said kindly: "Are you able to sit up with Miss Sanders to-night? If not, say so
candidly."
"I am able and determined to do so."
"Very well. After to-morrow it will not be needed."
"What do you mean?" cried Beulah, clutching his arm.
"Don't look so savage, child. She will either be convalescent or
beyond all aid. I hope and believe the former. Watch her closely
till I see you again. Good-night, dear child." He stepped to the
door, and, with a slight inclination of his head, Dr. Hartwell
followed him.
It was a vigil Beulah never forgot. The night seemed interminable,
as if the car of time were driven backward, and she longed
inexpressibly for the dawning of day. Four o'clock came at last;
silence brooded over the town; the western breeze had sung itself to
rest, and there was a solemn hush, as though all nature stood still
to witness the struggle between dusky Azrael and a human soul. Clara
slept. The distant stars looked down encouragingly from their homes
of blue, and once more the lonely orphan bent her knee in
supplication before the throne of Jehovah. But a cloud seemed
hovering between her heart and the presence-chamber of Deity. In
vain she prayed, and tried to believe that life would be spared in
answer to her petitions. Faith died in her soul, and she sat with
her eyes riveted upon the face of her friend. The flush of consuming
fever paled, the pulse was slow and feeble, and by the gray light of
day Beulah saw that the face was strangely changed. For several
hours longer she maintained her watch; still the doctor did not
come, and while she sat with Clara's fingers clasped in her, the
brown eyes opened, and looked dreamily at her. She leaned over and,
kissing the wan cheek, asked eagerly: "How do you feel, darling?"