"What do you mean?" cried Beulah, clutching his arm.
"Don't look so savage, child. She will either be convalescent or beyond all aid. I hope and believe the former. Watch her closely till I see you again. Good-night, dear child." He stepped to the door, and, with a slight inclination of his head, Dr. Hartwell followed him.
It was a vigil Beulah never forgot. The night seemed interminable, as if the car of time were driven backward, and she longed inexpressibly for the dawning of day. Four o'clock came at last; silence brooded over the town; the western breeze had sung itself to rest, and there was a solemn hush, as though all nature stood still to witness the struggle between dusky Azrael and a human soul. Clara slept. The distant stars looked down encouragingly from their homes of blue, and once more the lonely orphan bent her knee in supplication before the throne of Jehovah. But a cloud seemed hovering between her heart and the presence-chamber of Deity. In vain she prayed, and tried to believe that life would be spared in answer to her petitions. Faith died in her soul, and she sat with her eyes riveted upon the face of her friend. The flush of consuming fever paled, the pulse was slow and feeble, and by the gray light of day Beulah saw that the face was strangely changed. For several hours longer she maintained her watch; still the doctor did not come, and while she sat with Clara's fingers clasped in her, the brown eyes opened, and looked dreamily at her. She leaned over and, kissing the wan cheek, asked eagerly:
"How do you feel, darling?"
"Perfectly weak and helpless. How long have I been sick?"
"Only a few days. You are a great deal better now." She tenderly smoothed the silky hair that clustered in disorder round the face. Clara seemed perplexed; she thought for a moment, and said feebly:
"Have I been very ill?"
"Well—yes. You have been right sick. Had some fever, but it has left you."
Clara mused again. Memory came back slowly, and at length she asked:
"Did they all die?"