He wrote as if with a heart preoccupied by weightier matters, and now Beulah could no longer conceal from herself the painful fact that the man was far different from the boy.  After five years’ absence he was coming back a man; engrossed by other thoughts and feelings than those which had prompted him in days gone by.  With the tenacious hope of youth she still trusted that she might have misjudged him; he could never be other than noble and generous; she would silence her forebodings and wait till his return.  She wished beyond all expression to see him once more, and the prospect of a speedy reunion often made her heart throb painfully.  That he would reproach her for her obstinate resolution of teaching, she was prepared to expect; but, strong in the consciousness of duty, she committed herself to the care of a merciful God, and soon slept as soundly as though under Dr. Hartwell’s roof.

CHAPTER XVII.

Sometimes, after sitting for five consecutive hours at the piano, guiding the clumsy fingers of tyros, and listening to a tiresome round of scales and exercises, Beulah felt exhausted, mentally and physically, and feared that she had miserably overrated her powers of endurance.  The long, warm days of August dragged heavily by, and each night she felt grateful that the summer was one day nearer its grave.  One afternoon she proposed to Clara to extend their walk to the home of her guardian, and, as she readily assented, they left the noise and crowd of the city, and soon found themselves on the common.

“This is my birthday,” said Beulah, as they passed a clump of pines and caught a glimpse of the white gate beyond.

“Ah!  How old are you?”

“Eighteen—­but I feel much older.”

She opened the gate, and, as they leisurely ascended the avenue of aged cedars, Beulah felt once more as if she were going home.  A fierce bark greeted her, and the next moment Charon rushed to meet her; placing his huge paws on her shoulders, and whining and barking joyfully.  He bounded before her to the steps, and lay down contentedly on the piazza.  Harriet’s turbaned head appeared at the entrance, and a smile of welcome lighted up her ebon face, as she shook Beulah’s hand.

Mrs. Watson was absent, and, after a few questions, Beulah entered the study, saying: 

“I want some books, Harriet; and Miss Sanders wishes to see the paintings.”

Ah! every chair and book-shelf greeted her like dear friends, and she bent down over some volumes to hide the tears that sprang into her eyes.  The only really happy portion of her life had been passed here; every article in the room was dear from association, and, though only a month had elapsed since her departure, those bygone years seemed far, far off, among the mist of very distant recollections.  Thick and fast fell the hot drops, until her eyes were blinded, and she could no longer distinguish the print they were riveted on.  The memory of kind smiles haunted her, and kinder tones seemed borne to her from every corner of the apartment.  Clara was eagerly examining the paintings, and neither of the girls observed Harriet’s entrance, until she asked: