Beulah - Page 48/348

"She did not eat much, sir, and seems so downhearted."

"That will do. I will ring when you are needed."

Dr. Hartwell seated himself on the edge of the bed, and, lifting the

child's head to his bosom, drew away the hands that shaded her face.

"Beulah, are you following my directions?"

"Oh, sir! you are very kind; but I am too wretched, too miserable,

even to thank you."

"I do not wish you to thank me. All I desire is that you will keep

quiet for a few days, till you grow strong, and not lie here sobbing

yourself into another fever. I know you have had a bitter lot in

life so far, and memories are all painful with you; but it is better

not to dwell upon the past. Ah, child! it is well to live only in

the present, looking into the future. I promise you I will guard

you, and care for you as tenderly as a father; and now, Beulah, I

think you owe it to me to try to be cheerful."

He passed his fingers softly over her forehead, and put back the

tangled masses of jetty hair, which long neglect had piled about her

face. The touch of his cool hand, the low, musical tones of his

voice, were very soothing to the weary sufferer, and, with a great

effort, she looked up into the deep, dark eyes. saying brokenly: "Oh, sir, how good you are! I am--very grateful--to you--indeed, I--

"

"There, my child, do not try to talk; only trust me, and be

cheerful. It is a pleasure to me to have you here, and know that you

will always remain in my house."

How long he sat there, she never knew, for soon she slept, and when

hours after she waked, the lamp was burning dimly, and only Harriet

was in the room. A week passed, and the girl saw no one except the

nurse and physician. One sunny afternoon she looped back the white

curtains, and sat down before the open window. Harriet had dressed

her in a blue calico wrapper, which made her wan face still more

ghastly, and the folds of black hair, which the gentle fingers of

the kind nurse had disentangled, lay thick about her forehead, like

an ebon wreath on the brow of a statue. Her elbows rested on the

arms of the easy-chair, and the weary head leaned upon the hands.

Before her lay the flower garden, brilliant and fragrant; further on

a row of Lombardy poplars bounded the yard, and beyond the street

stretched the west common. In the distance rose a venerable brick

building, set, as it were, in an emerald lawn, and Beulah looked

only once, and knew it vas the asylum. It was the first time she had

seen it since her exodus, and the long-sealed fountain could no

longer be restrained. Great hot tears fell over the bent face, and

the frail form trembled violently. For nearly fourteen years that

brave spirit had battled, and borne, and tried to hope for better

things. With more than ordinary fortitude, she had resigned herself

to the sorrows that came thick and fast upon her, and, trusting in

the eternal love and goodness of God, had looked to him for relief

and reward. But the reward came not in the expected way. Hope died;

faith fainted; and bitterness and despair reigned in that once

loving and gentle soul. Her father had not been spared in answer to

her frantic prayers. Lilly had been taken, without even the sad

comfort of a farewell, and now, with the present full of anguish,

and the future shrouded in dark forebodings, she sobbed aloud: "All alone! All alone! Oh, father! Oh, Lilly, Lilly!"