"What! are you, too, tired of listening to this storm-anthem nature has treated us to for the last two days? It seems to me the very universe, animate and inanimate, is indulging in an uncontrollable fit of the 'blues.' One would almost think the dead-march was being played up and down the aisles of creation."
She pressed her hands to her hot brow, as if to wipe away the cobwebs that dimmed her vision, and, raising the lid of the piano, ran her fingers over the keys.
"Sing me something hopeful and heart-cheering," said Clara.
"I have no songs of that description."
"Yes, you have: 'Look Aloft' and the 'Psalm of Life.'"
"No, no. Impossible. I could not sing either now," replied Beulah, averting her face.
"Why not now? They are the excelsior strains of struggling pilgrims.
They were written for the dark hours of life."
"They are a mockery to me. Ask me for anything else," said she, compressing her lips.
Clara leaned her arm on the piano, and, looking sadly at her companion, said, as if with a painful effort:
"Beulah, in a little while we shall be separated, and only the All- Father knows whether we shall meet on earth again. My application for that situation as governess up the country brought me an answer to-day. I am to go very soon."