The Grahams were all at home again, and Eugene and his bride had
been for several weeks fairly settled in their elegant new house.
Beulah had seen none of the family since their return, for her time
was nearly all occupied, and as soon as released from school she
gladly hurried out to her little home. One evening as she left the
academy Mr. Graham's spirited horses dashed up to the gate, and the
coachman handed her a note. It was from Mrs. Graham.
"MISS BENTON: "Cornelia is quite indisposed, and begs that you will call and see
her this afternoon. As it threatens rain, I send the carriage.
"S. GRAHAM."
Beulah crumpled the note between her fingers, and hesitated. The
coachman perceived her irresolution, and hastened to say: "You needn't be afraid of the horses, miss. Miss Nett' rides so much
they are tamed down."
"I am not at all afraid of the horses. Has Cornelia been sick since
her return from the North?"
"Why, miss, she came home worse than ever. She has not been
downstairs since. She is sick all the time now."
Beulah hesitated no longer. Mrs. Graham met her at the door, and
greeted her more cordially than she had done on any previous
occasion. She looked anxious and weary, and said, as she led the way
to her daughter's apartment: "We are quite uneasy about Cornelia; you will find her sadly
altered." She ushered Beulah into the room, then immediately
withdrew.
Cornelia was propped up by cushions and pillows in her easy-chair;
her head was thrown back, and her gaze appeared to be riveted on a
painting which hung opposite. Beulah stood beside her a moment,
unnoticed, and saw with painful surprise the ravages which disease
had made in the once beautiful face and queenly form. The black,
shining hair was cut short, and clustered in thick, wavy locks about
the wan brow, now corrugated as by some spasm of pain. The cheeks
were hollow and ghastly pale; the eyes sunken, but unnaturally large
and brilliant; and the colorless lips compressed as though to bear
habitual suffering. Her wasted hands, grasping the arms of the
chair, might have served as a model for a statue of death, so thin,
pale, almost transparent. Beulah softly touched one of them, and
said: "Cornelia, you wished to see me."
The invalid looked at her intently, and smiled.
"I thought you would come. Ah, Beulah, do you recognize this wreck
as your former friend?"
"I was not prepared to find you so changed; for until this afternoon
I was not aware your trip had been so fruitless. Do you suffer
much?"