“Ah, how merry I used to be on Christmas Eve!  Indeed, I can remember having been half wild with excitement.  Yet now it all seems like a flitting dream.”  Clara spoke musingly, yet without sadness.

“Time has laid his wonder-working touch upon you,” answered Beulah.

“How is it, Beulah, that you never speak of your childhood?”

“Because it was

  “All dark and barren as a rainy sea.”

“But you never talk about your parents?”

“I love my father’s memory.  Ah! it is enshrined in my heart’s holiest sanctuary.  He was a noble, loving man, and my affection for him bordered on idolatry.”

“And your mother?”

“I knew little of her.  She died before I was old enough to remember much about her.”

Her face was full of bitter recollections; her eyes seemed wandering through some storehouse of sorrows.  Clara feared her friend, much as she loved her, and since the partial discovery of her skepticism she had rather shunned her society.  Now she watched the heavy brow and deep, piercing eyes uneasily, and, gently withdrawing her arm, she glided out of the room.  The tide of life still swelled through the streets, and, forcibly casting the load of painful reminiscences from her, Beulah kept her eyes on the merry faces, and listened to the gay, careless prattle of the excited children.  The stately rustle of brocaded silk caused her to look up, and Cornelia Graham greeted her with: 

“I have come to take you home with me for the holidays.”

“I can’t go.”

“Why not?  You cling to this dark garret of yours as if it possessed all the charms of Vaucluse.”

“Diogenes loved his tub, you know,” said Beulah quietly.

“An analogous case, truly.  But, jesting aside, you must come, Beulah.  Eugene expects you; so do my parents; and, above all, I want you.  Come.”  Cornelia laid her hand on the girl’s shoulders as she spoke.

“You have been ill again,” said Beulah, examining the sallow face.

“Not ill, but I shall be soon, I know.  One of my old attacks is coming on; I feel it; and Beulah, to be honest, which I can with you (without casting pearls before swine), that very circumstance makes me want you.  I dined out to-day, and have just left the fashionable crowd to come and ask you to spend the holidays with me.  The house will be gay.  Antoinette intends to have a set of tableaux; but it is probable I shall be confined to my room.  Will you give your time to a cross invalid, for such I certainly am?  I would be stretched upon St. Lawrence’s gridiron before I could be brought to say as much to anybody else.  I am not accustomed to ask favors, Beulah; it has been my habit to grant them.  Nevertheless, I want you, and am not too proud to come after you.  Will you come?”

“Yes, if I may remain with you altogether.”

“Thank you.  Come, get ready, quick!  Give me a fan.”  Sinking into a chair, she wiped away the cold drops which had collected about her brow.