"Anything hopeful and strengthening. Anything but your study-books of philosophy and metaphysics. Anything but those, Beulah."
"And why not those?" asked the girl quickly.
"Because they always confuse and darken me."
"You do not understand them, perhaps?"
"I understand them sufficiently to know that they are not what I need."
"What do you need, Clara?"
"The calm content and courage to do my duty through life. I want to be patient and useful."
The gray eyes rested searchingly on the sweet face, and then, with a contracted brow, Beulah stepped to the window and looked out. The night was gusty, dark, and rainy; heavy drops pattered briskly down the panes. She turned away, and, standing on the hearth, with her hands behind her, slowly repeated the beautiful lines, beginning:
"'The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of night,
As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.'"
Her voice was low and musical, and, as she concluded the short poem which seemed so singularly suited to Clara's wishes, the latter said earnestly: