of the session.  Thus November glided quickly away, and the first of December greeted her ere she dreamed of its approach.  The Grahams had not returned, though daily expected; and, notwithstanding two months had elapsed without Eugene’s writing, she looked forward with intense pleasure to his expected arrival.  There was one source of constant pain for her in Dr. Hartwell’s continued and complete estrangement.  Except a cold, formal bow in passing there was no intercourse whatever; and she sorrowed bitterly over this seeming indifference in one to whom she owed so much and was so warmly attached.  Remotely connected with this cause of disquiet was the painful change in Clara.  Like a lily suddenly transplanted to some arid spot, she had seemed to droop since the week of her ride.  Gentle, but hopeless and depressed, she went, day after day, to her duties at Madam St. Cymon’s school, and returned at night wearied, silent, and wan.  Her step grew more feeble, her face thinner and paler.  Often Beulah gave up her music and books, and devoted the evenings to entertaining and interesting her; but there was a constraint and reserve about her which could not be removed.

One evening, on returning from a walk with Helen Asbury, Beulah ran into her friend’s room with a cluster of flowers.  Clara sat by the fire, with a piece of needlework in her hand; she looked listless and sad.  Beulah threw the bright golden and crimson chrysanthemums in her lap, and, stooping down, kissed her warmly, saying: 

“How is your troublesome head?  Here is a flowery cure for you.”

“My head does not ache quite so badly.  Where did you find these beautiful chrysanthemums?” answered Clara languidly.

“I stopped to get a piece of music from Georgia, and Helen cut them for me.  Oh, what blessed things flowers are!  They have been well styled, ’God’s undertones of encouragement to the children of earth.’”

She was standing on the hearth, warming her fingers.  Clara looked up at the dark, clear eye and delicate, fixed lips before her, and sighed involuntarily.  Beulah knelt on the carpet, and, throwing one arm around her companion, said earnestly: 

“My dear Clara, what saddens you to-night?  Can’t you tell me?”

A hasty knock at the door gave no time for an answer.  A servant looked in.

“Is Miss Beulah Benton here?  There is a gentleman in the parlor to see her; here is the card.”

Beulah still knelt on the floor and held out her hand indifferently.  The card was given, and she sprang up with a cry of joy.

“Oh, it is Eugene!”

At the door of the parlor she paused and pressed her hand tightly to her bounding heart.  A tall form stood before the grate, and a glance discovered to her a dark mustache and heavy beard; still it must be Eugene, and, extending her arms unconsciously, she exclaimed: 

“Eugene!  Eugene!  Have you come at last?”

He started, looked up, and hastened toward her.  Her arms suddenly dropped to her side, and only their hands met in a firm, tight clasp.  For a moment they gazed at each other in silence, each noting the changes which time had wrought.  Then he said slowly: