"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!"