She looked up at him proudly. Resentment had usurped the place of grief. But she could not bear the earnest eyes that looked into hers with such misty splendor; and, provoked at her own emotion, she asked coldly:
"What do you want, sir?"
He did not answer at once, but stood observing her closely. She felt the hot blood rush into her usually cold, pale face, and, despite her efforts to seem perfectly indifferent, her eyelids and lips would tremble. His hand rested lightly on her shoulder, and he spoke very gently.
"Child, have you been ill? You look wretched. What ails you,
Beulah?"
"Nothing, sir."
"That will not answer. Tell me, child, tell me!"
"I tell you I am as well as usual," cried she impatiently, yet her voice faltered. She was struggling desperately with her own heart. The return of his old manner, the winning tones of his voice, affected her more than she was willing he should see.
"Beulah, you used to be truthful and candid."
"I am so still," she returned stoutly, though tears began to gather in her eyes.
"No, child; already the world has changed you."