"Yes; there she is by the window. You were asleep when she came in."
He looked round and called to her.
"What are you thinking about, Beulah? You look as cold as an iceberg. Come to the fire. Warm hands and feet will aid your philosophizing wonderfully."
"I am not philosophizing, sir," she replied, without rising.
"I will wager my elegant new edition of Coleridge against your old one that you are! Now, out with your cogitations, you incorrigible dreamer!"
"I have won your Coleridge. I was only thinking of that Talmudish tradition regarding Sandalphon, the angel of prayer."
"What of him?"
"Why, that he stands at the gate of heaven, listens to the sounds that ascend from earth, and, gathering all the prayers and entreaties, as they are wafted from sorrowing humanity, they change to flowers in his hands, and the perfume is borne into the celestial city to God. Yesterday I read Longfellow's lines on this legend, and suppose my looking up at the stars recalled it to my mind. But Georgia told me you asked for me. Can I do anything for you, sir? Are there any prescriptions you wish written off?" She came and stood by his chair.
"No, thank you, child; but I should like to hear more of that book you were reading to me last night—that is, if it will not weary you, my child."
"Certainly not—here it is. I was waiting for you to ask me for more of it. Shall I begin now, or defer it till after tea?"