"PAULINE."
Beulah laid the letter beside one received the previous day from Clara, and mused for some moments. They were both happily married, and she sincerely rejoiced over their fortunate lots; but Clara had onced loved her guardian; how could she possibly forget him so entirely? Was love a mere whim of the hour, fostered by fortuitously favorable circumstances, but chilled and vanquished by absence or obstacles? Could the heart demolish the idol it had once enshrined, and set up another image for worship? Was Time the conquering iconoclast? Why, then, did she suffer more acutely as each year rolled on? She had little leisure, however, for these reflections; the Asburys had returned, and the cottage had been rented by a family who were anxious to take possession immediately. Such articles of furniture as were no longer needed had been sent to an auction room, and she sat down in the empty dining room to see the last load removed. To-day she bade adieu to the cottage, and commenced boarding once more. Her heart was heavy, but her eyes were undimmed, and her grave, composed face betokened little of the sorrow which oppressed her. Here she had spent five years in peaceful seclusion; here she had toiled and earned reputation as a writer; and here many hours of happiness had been passed among her flowers. The place was very dear to her; it was the only spot on the face of the wide world she had ever felt was her home. Home! if it consists of but a sanded floor and unplastered walls, what a halo is shed upon its humble hearth! A palatial mansion, or sequestered cottage among wild forests, were alike sanctified by the name. Home! the heart's home! who shall compute its value? But Beulah must relinquish her retreat, and find refuge in the home of others. Would this content her? Was she to be always homeless? True, she was to reside with loved and tried friends, yet she would be a homeless orphan still, without claims upon one living being. The grave had closed over the kind matron who had so warmly loved her, and she was without ties in the world. These thoughts passed through her mind as she saw the last chair deposited on a furniture cart and borne away. Charon looked up at her mournfully, as if to ask:
"Are we homeless? Where shall we wander?" She stroked his head, and went into the flower garden to gather a last bouquet from plants she had so carefully tended. An early frost had nipped the buds, but the chrysanthemums were in all their glory—crimson, white, and orange. She broke some of the beautiful clusters, and, with a long, lingering look, turned away. The black mourning veil was thrown back from a pale, calm face: and as she walked on, reflecting upon the future, which stretched dimly before her, she exclaimed:
"Why should I wish it otherwise? The arms of a merciful God will shield me, under all circumstances. My life was not given for a mere holiday. So I but do my duty faithfully, all will be well. Ah, truly, I can say:"
"'Let me, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate,
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor, and to wait!'"
"Yes, learn to labor and to wait. The heart cries out fiercely for its recompense; is loath to wait. But I can conquer even this. I will be patient and hopeful. Duty is its own recompense."
Mrs. Asbury spared no exertion to make the orphan happy in her house. She treated her with the gentle frankness which characterized her deportment toward her daughters; and to identify her with her own family, often requested her to assist in her household plans. She thoroughly understood and appreciated Beulah's nature, and perfect confidence existed between them. It was no sooner known that Beulah was an inmate of the house than many persons, curious to see one of whom rumor spoke so flatteringly, availed themselves of the circumstance to make her acquaintance. Almost unconsciously, she soon found herself the center of a circle of literary people whom she had often heard of, but had never known previously. Gradually her reserve melted away, and her fine colloquial powers developed themselves; but she wearied of the visitors—wearied even of the themes discussed, and, having passed her life in seclusion, found in solitude a degree of enjoyment which society could not confer. Helen had married a planter, and resided at some distance from the city, but Georgia and her husband remained at home. Thus, imperceptibly, time wore on. Eugene often came and spent an hour with Beulah; and, still more frequently, Cornelia was sent to while away an evening with her merry prattle. Very steadily Eugene advanced in his profession; the applause of the world cheered him on, and an enviable reputation was his at last. Grasping ambition lured him, step by step; and it was evident that he aimed at a seat beside Reginald Lindsay. Rejoiced at his entire reformation, and proud of his success, Beulah constantly encouraged his aspirations. Antoinette was as gay and indifferent as ever, and Eugene divided his heart between his child and his ambition.
By a system of rigid economy in the disposal of her time, Beulah not only attended to her school duties, her music, and her books, but found leisure, after writing her magazine articles, to spend some time each day with the family under whose roof she resided. Dr. Asbury's health was rather feeble, and of late his eyes had grown so dim as to prevent his reading or writing. This misfortune was to a great extent counterbalanced by his wife's devoted attention, and often Beulah shared the duties of the library. One bright Sunday afternoon she walked out to the cemetery, which she visited frequently. In one corner of a small lot, inclosed by a costly iron railing, stood a beautiful marble monument, erected by Mr. Grayson over Lilly's grave. It represented two angels bearing the child up to its God. Just opposite, in the next lot, was a splendid mausoleum of the finest white marble, bearing in gilt letters the name "Cornelia Graham, aged twenty-three." It was in the form of a temple, with slender fluted columns supporting the portico; and on the ornate capitals was inscribed in corresponding gilt characters, "Silentio! silentio!" At the entrance stood two winged forms, crowned with wreaths of poppies; and a pair of beautiful vases held withered flowers. Beulah sat on the marble steps. Before her stretched aisles of tombstones; the sunshine sparkled on their polished surfaces, and was reflected as from countless mirrors. Myrtle and laurel trees waved gently in the icy north wind, and stately, solemn cedars kept guard in every inclosure. All was silent and still, save those funereal evergreen boughs which stirred softly as if fearful of disturbing the pale sleepers around them. Human nature shrinks appalled from death and all that accompanies it; but in the deep repose, the sacred hush, which reigned over the silent city, there was for Beulah something inexpressibly soothing. In a neighboring lot she could see a simple white slab Eugene had erected over the remains of the friend of their childhood. Her labors ended, the matron slept near the forms of Lilly and Cornelia. Here winter rains fell unheeded, and here the balmy breath of summer brought bright blossoms and luxuriant verdure. Mocking-birds sang cheerfully in the sentinel cedars, and friends wandered slowly over the shelled walks, recalling the past. Here there was no gloom to affright the timid soul; all was serene and inviting. Why should the living shrink from a resting-place so hallowed and peaceful? And why should death be invested with fictitious horrors? A procession entered one of the gates, and wound along the carriage road to a remote corner of the burying-ground. The slow, measured tread of the horses, the crush of wheels on the rocky track, and the smothered sobs of the mourners, all came in subdued tones to Beulah's ears. Then the train disappeared, and she was again in solitude. Looking up, her eyes rested on the words above her: "Silentio! silentio!" They were appropriate, indeed, upon the monument of her who had gone down into the tomb so hopelessly, so shudderingly. Years had passed since the only child had been laid here; yet the hour of release was as fresh in Beulah's memory as though she had seen the convulsed features but yesterday; and the words repeated that night seemed now to issue from the marble lips of the statues beside her: "For here we have no continuing city, but seek one to come." With her cheek on her hand, the orphan sat pondering the awful mystery which darkened the last hour of the young sleeper; and, looking back over her own life, during the season when she "was without God and without hope," she saw that only unbelief had clothed death with terror. Once she stood on this same spot, and with trembling horror saw the coffin lowered. Had death touched her then, she would have shrunk appalled from the summons; but now it was otherwise.
"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die."
She believed; and, while a beautiful world linked her to life, and duty called to constant and cheerful labor, death lost its hideous aspect. With a firm faith in the Gospel of Christ, she felt that earth with all its loveliness was but a probationary dwelling-place; and that death was an angel of God, summoning the laborers to their harvest home. She had often asked what is the aim and end of life? One set of philosophers told her it was to be happy. Another exclaimed it was to learn to endure with fortitude all ills. But neither satisfied her; one promised too much, the other too little, and only in revelation was an answer found. Yet how few pause to ponder its significance! With the majority, life is the all: the springtime, the holiday; and death the hated close of enjoyment. They forget that