"Beulah Benton."
"Beulah!" repeated the doctor, while a smile flitted over his mustached lip. She observed it, and exclaimed, with bitter emphasis:
"You need not tell me it is unsuitable; I know it; I feel it. Beulah! Beulah! Oh, my father! I have neither sunshine nor flowers, nor hear the singing of birds, nor the voice of the turtle. You ought to have called me Marah."
"You have read the 'Pilgrim's Progress' then?" said he, with a searching glance.
Either she did not hear him, or was too entirely engrossed by painful reflection to frame an answer. The despairing expression settled upon her face, and the broken threads of memory wove on again.
"Beulah, how came you here in the capacity of nurse?"
"I was driven here by necessity."
"Where are your parents and friends?"
"I have none. I am alone in the world."
"How long have you been so dependent?"