calm twilight season.  The events of the day passed in a swift review, and a mighty barrier seemed to have sprung up (as by some foul spell) between her guardian and herself.  What an immeasurable gulf now yawned to separate them!  Could it be possible that the friendly relations of years were thus suddenly and irrevocably annulled?  Would he relinquish all interest in one whom he had so long watched over and directed?  Did he intend that they should be completely estranged henceforth?  For the first time since Lilly’s death she felt herself thrown upon the world.  Alone and unaided, she was essaying to carve her own fortune from the huge quarries where thousands were diligently laboring.  An undefinable feeling of desolation crept into her heart; but she struggled desperately against it, and asked, in proud defiance of her own nature: 

“Am I not sufficient unto myself?  Leaning only on myself, what more should I want?  Nothing!  His sympathy is utterly unnecessary.”

A knock at the door startled her, and, in answer to her “Come in,” Clara Sanders entered.  She walked slowly, and, seating herself beside Beulah, said, in a gentle but weary tone: 

“How do you like your room?  I am so glad it opens into mine.”

“Quite as well as I expected.  The view from this window must be very fine.  There is the tea-bell, I suppose.  Are you not going down?  I am too much fatigued to move.”

“No; I never want supper, and generally spend the evenings in my room.  It is drearily monotonous here.  Nothing to vary the routine for me, except my afternoon walk, and recently the warm weather has debarred me even from that.  You are a great walker, I believe, and I look forward to many pleasant rambles with you when I feel stronger and autumn comes.  Beulah, how long does Dr. Hartwell expect to remain at the North?  He told me, some time ago, that he was a delegate to the Medical Convention.”

“I believe it is rather uncertain; but probably he will not return before October.”

“Indeed!  That is a long time for a physician to absent himself.”

Just then an organ-grinder paused on the pavement beneath the window and began a beautiful air from “Sonnambula.”  It was a favorite song of Beulah’s, and, as the melancholy tones swelled on the night air, they recalled many happy hours spent in the quiet study beside the melodeon.  She leaned out of the window till the last echo died away, and, as the musician shouldered his instrument and trudged off, she said abruptly: 

“Is there not a piano in the house!”

“Yes; just such a one as you might expect to find in a boarding house, where unruly children are thrumming upon it from morning till night.  It was once a fine instrument, but now is only capable of excruciating discords.  You will miss your grand piano.”

“I must have something in my own room to practice on.  Perhaps I can hire a melodeon or piano for a moderate sum.  I will try to-morrow.”