They found Clara kneeling beside her insensible grandfather, while
two or three middle-aged ladies sat near the hearth, talking in
undertones. Beulah put her arms tenderly around her friend ere she
was aware of her presence, and the cry of blended woe and gladness
with which Clara threw herself on Beulah's bosom told her how well-
timed that presence was. Three years of teaching and care had worn
the slight young form, and given a troubled, strained, weary look to
the fair face. Thin, pale, and tearful, she clung to Beulah, and
asked, in broken accents, what would become of her when the aged
sleeper was no more.
"Our good God remains to you, Clara. I was a shorn lamb, and he
tempered the winds for me. I was very miserable, but he did not
forsake me."
Clara looked at the tall form of the physician, and, while her eyes
rested upon him with a species of fascination, she murmured: "Yes, you have been blessed indeed! You have him. He guards and
cares for your happiness; but I, oh, I am alone!"
"You told me he had promised to be your friend. Best assured he will
prove himself such," answered Beulah, watching Clara's countenance
as she spoke.
"Yes, I know; but--" She paused, and averted her head, for just then
he drew near and said gravely: "Beulah, take Miss Clara to her own room, and persuade her to rest.
I shall remain probably all night; at least until some change takes
place."
"Don't send me away," pleaded Clara mournfully.
"Go, Beulah; it is for her own good." She saw that he was
unrelenting, and complied without opposition. In the seclusion of
her room she indulged in a passionate burst of grief, and, thinking
it was best thus vented, Beulah paced up and down the floor,
listening now to the convulsive sobs, and now to the rain which
pelted the window-panes. She was two years younger than her
companion, yet felt that she was immeasurably stronger. Often during
their acquaintance a painful suspicion had crossed her mind; as
often she had banished it, but now it haunted her with a pertinacity
which she could not subdue. While her feet trod the chamber floor,
memory trod the chambers of the past, and gathered up every link
which could strengthen the chain of evidence. Gradually dim
conjecture became sad conviction, and she was conscious of a degree
of pain and sorrow for which she could not readily account. If Clara
loved Dr. Hartwell, why should it grieve her? Her step grew
nervously rapid, and the eyes settled upon the carpet with a
fixedness of which she was unconscious. Suppose he was double her
age, if Clara loved him notwithstanding, what business was it of
hers? Besides, no one would dream of the actual disparity in years,
for he was a very handsome man, and certainly did not look more than
ten years older. True, Clara was not very intellectual, and he was
particularly fond of literary pursuits; but had not she heard him
say that it was a singular fact in anthropology that men selected
their opposites for wives? She did not believe her guardian ever
thought of Clara save when in her presence. But how did she know
anything about his thoughts and fancies, his likes and dislikes? He
had never even spoken of his marriage--was it probable that the
subject of a second love would have escaped him? All this passed
rapidly in her mind, and when Clara called her to sit down on the
couch beside her, she started as from a painful dream. While her
friend talked sadly of the future, Beulah analyzed her features, and
came to the conclusion that it would be a very easy matter to love
her; the face was so sweet and gentle, the manner so graceful, the
tone so musical and winning. Absorbed in thought, neither noted the
lapse of time. Midnight passed; two o'clock came; and then at three
a knock startled the watchers. Clara sprang to the door; Dr.
Hartwell pointed to the sickroom, and said gently: "He has ceased to suffer. He is at rest."