"Do pray, chile, don't take on so; you will fret yourself sick
again," said Harriet, compassionately patting the drooped head.
"Don't talk to me--don't speak to me!" cried Beulah passionately.
"Yes; but I was told not to let you grieve yourself to death, and
you are doing your best. Why don't you put your trust in the Lord?"
"I did, and he has forgotten me."
"No, chile. He forgets not even the little snow-birds. I expect you
wanted to lay down the law for him, and are not willing to wait
until he sees fit to bless you. Isn't it so?"
"He never can give me back my dead."
"But he can raise up other friends for you, and he has. It is a
blessed thing to have my master for a friend and a protector. Think
of living always in a place like this, with plenty of money, and
nothing to wish for. Chile, you don't know how lucky--"
She paused, startled by ringing' peals of laughter, which seemed to
come from the adjoining passage. Sounds of mirth fell torturingly
upon Beulah's bleeding spirit, and she pressed her fingers tightly
over her ears. Just opposite to her sat the old trunk, which, a
fortnight before, she had packed for her journey up the river. The
leathern face seemed to sympathize with her woe, and, kneeling down
on the floor, she wound her arms caressingly over it.
"Bless the girl! she hugs that ugly, old-fashioned thing as if it
were kin to her," said Harriet, who sat sewing at one of the
windows.
Beulah raised the lid, and there lay her clothes, the books Eugene
had given her; two or three faded, worn-out garments of Lilly's, and
an old Bible. The tears froze in her eyes, as she took out the last,
and opened it at the ribbon mark. These words greeted her: "Whom the
Lord loveth, he chasteneth." Again and again she read them, and the
crushed tendrils of trust feebly twined once more about the promise.
As she sat there, wondering why suffering and sorrow always fell on
those whom the Bible calls "blessed," and trying to explain the
paradox, the door was thrown rudely open, and a girl about her own
age sprang into the room, quickly followed by Mrs. Chilton.
"Let me alone, mother. I tell you I mean to see her, and then you
are welcome to me as long as you please. Ah, is that her?"
The speaker paused in the center of the apartment, and gazed
curiously at the figure seated before the old trunk. Involuntarily
Beulah raised her eyes, and met the searching look fixed upon her.
The intruder was richly dressed, and her very posture bespoke the
lawless independence of a willful, petted child. The figure was
faultlessly symmetrical, and her face radiantly beautiful. The
features were clearly cut and regular, the eyes of deep, dark violet
hue, shaded by curling brown lashes. Her chestnut hair was thrown
back with a silver comb, and fell in thick curls below the waist;
her complexion was of alabaster clearness, and cheeks and lips wore
the coral bloom of health. As they confronted each other one looked
a Hebe, the other a ghostly visitant from spirit realms. Beulah
shrank from the eager scrutiny, and put up her hands to shield her
face. The other advanced a few steps, and stood beside her. The
expression of curiosity faded, and something like compassion swept
over the stranger's features, as she noted the thin, drooping form
of the invalid. Her lips parted, and she put out her hand, as if to
address Beulah, when Mrs. Chilton exclaimed impatiently: "Pauline, come down this instant! Your uncle positively forbade your
entering this room until he gave you permission. There is his buggy
this minute! Come out, I say!" She laid her hand in no gentle manner
on her daughter's arm.