Beulah laid the letter beside one received the previous day from Clara, and mused for some moments.  They were both happily married, and she sincerely rejoiced over their fortunate lots; but Clara had onced loved her guardian; how could she possibly forget him so entirely?  Was love a mere whim of the hour, fostered by fortuitously favorable circumstances, but chilled and vanquished by absence or obstacles?  Could the heart demolish the idol it had once enshrined, and set up another image for worship?  Was Time the conquering iconoclast?  Why, then, did she suffer more acutely as each year rolled on?  She had little leisure, however, for these reflections; the Asburys had returned, and the cottage had been rented by a family who were anxious to take possession immediately.  Such articles of furniture as were no longer needed had been sent to an auction room, and she sat down in the empty dining room to see the last load removed.  To-day she bade adieu to the cottage, and commenced boarding once more.  Her heart was heavy, but her eyes were undimmed, and her grave, composed face betokened little of the sorrow which oppressed her.  Here she had spent five years in peaceful seclusion; here she had toiled and earned reputation as a writer; and here many hours of happiness had been passed among her flowers.  The place was very dear to her; it was the only spot on the face of the wide world she had ever felt was her home.  Home! if it consists of but a sanded floor and unplastered walls, what a halo is shed upon its humble hearth!  A palatial mansion, or sequestered cottage among wild forests, were alike sanctified by the name.  Home! the heart’s home! who shall compute its value?  But Beulah must relinquish her retreat, and find refuge in the home of others.  Would this content her?  Was she to be always homeless?  True, she was to reside with loved and tried friends, yet she would be a homeless orphan still, without claims upon one living being.  The grave had closed over the kind matron who had so warmly loved her, and she was without ties in the world.  These thoughts passed through her mind as she saw the last chair deposited on a furniture cart and borne away.  Charon looked up at her mournfully, as if to ask: 

“Are we homeless?  Where shall we wander?” She stroked his head, and went into the flower garden to gather a last bouquet from plants she had so carefully tended.  An early frost had nipped the buds, but the chrysanthemums were in all their glory—­crimson, white, and orange.  She broke some of the beautiful clusters, and, with a long, lingering look, turned away.  The black mourning veil was thrown back from a pale, calm face:  and as she walked on, reflecting upon the future, which stretched dimly before her, she exclaimed: 

“Why should I wish it otherwise?  The arms of a merciful God will shield me, under all circumstances.  My life was not given for a mere holiday.  So I but do my duty faithfully, all will be well.  Ah, truly, I can say:”