There, in the golden twilight, she mused on the changes time bore on its swift chariot. The gorgeous dreamings of her girlhood had faded like the summer clouds above her to the somber hue of reality. From the hour when her father (a poor artist, toiling over canvas to feed his children) had, in dying accents, committed the two to God's care, she only remembered sorrow up to the time that Dr. Hartwell took her to his home. Her life there was the one bright oasis in her desert past. Then she left it a woman, and began the long struggle with poverty and trials over again. In addition, skepticism threw its icy shadow over her. She had toiled in the cavernous mines of metaphysics hopelessly; and finally, returning to the holy religion of Jesus Christ, her weary spirit found rest. Ah, that rest which only the exhausted wanderer through the burning wastes of speculation can truly comprehend and appreciate. She had been ambitious, and labored to obtain distinction as a writer; and this, under various fictitious signatures, was hers. She still studied and wrote, but with another aim, now, than mere desire of literary fame; wrote to warn others of the snares in which she had so long been entangled, and to point young seekers after truth to the only sure fountain. She was very lonely, but not unhappy. Georgia and Helen were both happily married, and she saw them very rarely; but their parents were still her counselors and friends. At Mrs. Williams' death they had urged her to remove to their house; but she preferred remaining at the little cottage, at least until the expiration of the year. She still kept her place in the schoolroom; not now as assistant, but as principal in that department; and the increased salary rendered rigid economy and music lessons no longer necessary. Her intense love of beauty, whether found in nature or art, was a constant source of pleasure; books, music, painting, flowers, all contributed largely to her happiness. The grim puzzles of philosophy no longer perplexed her mind; sometimes they thrust themselves before her, threatening as the sphinx of old; but she knew that here they were insolvable; that at least her reason was no Oedipus, and a genuine philosophy induced her to put them aside, and, anchoring her hopes of God and eternity in the religion of Christ, she drew from the beautiful world in which she lived much pure enjoyment. Once she had worshiped the universe; now she looked beyond the wonderful temple whose architecture, from its lowest foundations of rock to its starry dome of sky, proclaimed the God of revelation; and, loving its beauty and grandeur, felt that it was but a home for a season, where the soul could be fitted for yet more perfect dwelling-places. Her face reflected the change which a calm reliance on God had wrought in her feelings. The restless, anxious expression had given place to quiet. The eyes had lost their strained, troubled look; the brow was unruffled, the face serene. Serene, reader, but not happy and sparkling as it might have been. All the shadows "were not yet banished from her heart; there was one spectral form which thrust itself continually before her and kept her cheek pale and rendered her lip at times unsteady. She had struggled bravely against this one remaining sorrow; but, as time rolled on, its power and influence only increased. Even now, in this quiet hour, when a holy hush had fallen on all nature, and twilight wrapped its soft, purple veil around her, this haunting memory came to stir the depths of her heart. Charon walked slowly up the steps, and, lying down at her feet, nestled his head against her. Then fancy painted a dreary picture, which
"Seemed all dark and red—a tract of sand,
And someone pacing there alone,
Who paced forever in a glimmering land,
Lit with a low, large moon."
It was the thought of a lonely man, wandering without aim or goal in far-distant deserts; away from home and friends; joyless, hopeless. One who was dearer to her than all on earth beside; who had left her in anger, and upon whose loved face she might look no more. For three years no tidings had come of his wanderings; none knew his fate; and, perhaps, even then his proud head lay low beneath the palms of the Orient, or was pillowed on the coral crags of distant seas. This thought was one she was unable to endure; her features quivered, her hands grasped each other in a paroxysm of dread apprehension, and, while a deep groan burst from her lips, she bowed her face on. the head of his last charge, his parting gift. The consciousness of his unbelief tortured her. Even in eternity they might meet no more; and this fear cost her hours of agony, such as no other trial had ever inflicted. From the moment of her return to the Bible and to prayer this struggle began, and for three years she had knelt, morning and evening, and entreated Almighty God to shield and guide the wanderer; to scatter the mists of unbelief which shrouded his mind. Constantly her prayers went up, mingled with tears and sobs, and, as weary months wore on, the petitions grew more impassioned. Her anxiety increased daily, and finally it became the one intense, absorbing wish of her heart to see her guardian again. His gloom, his bitterness were all forgotten; she only remembered his unceasing care and kindness, his noble generosity, his brilliant smile, which was bestowed only on her. Pressing her face against Charon's head, she murmured pleadingly:
"Oh, Father, protect him from suffering and death! Guide him safely home. Give me my guardian back. Oh, Father, give me my wandering friend once more!"
CHAPTER XXXVII.
"Fold that coat for me, my dear; there, give it to me; I believe there is room in this trunk for it."
Mrs. Asbury took one of her husband's coats from Beulah's hand and carefully packed it away.
"How long will you be absent, do you suppose?"
"Probably not longer than a month. The doctor thinks a few days at Saratoga will invigorate him. If you had consented to go, we had intended spending a week at Niagara. I am sorry you will not go, Beulah; you would enjoy the trip, and, moreover, the change would benefit you. Why do you so pertinaciously reject that legacy of Cornelia's? The money has been in my husband's hands for some years untouched, and Mr. Graham said, not long since, that you might just as well accept it, for he would never receive a cent of it in return. The original sum has been considerably augmented by judicious investments, and would place you above the necessity of labor, if you would accept it. Your refusal wounds Mr. Graham; he told me so last week. It was Cornelia's particular request that you should have that amount, and he is anxious to see you in possession of it. I told him of your suggestion that he should add this legacy to the sum already given to the asylum; but he vowed solemnly he would have nothing to do with it. If you chose to give it to the asylum, you could do so, of course; the money was yours. He never would touch a cent of it. Beulah, if you will not think me officious, I will say, candidly, that I think you ought to accept it. That is, use it, for the legacy has been left, whether you employ it or not."
Beulah looked grave and troubled, but made no reply.