"No; I shall remain with you," answered his wife gently.
"You need not, my dear. I will go with you, if you prefer it." Beulah did not look up, but she knew that true-hearted wife was unspeakably happy; and understood why, during tea, she was so quiet, so unwontedly silent.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
"I wish Hartwell would come home and attend to his business," muttered Dr. Asbury, some weeks later; and, as he spoke, he threw his feet impatiently over the fender of the grate, looking discontented enough.
"He will come, sir; he will come," answered Beulah, who sat near him.
"How do you know that so well, child? Why do you suppose he will come?" asked the doctor, knitting his bushy gray eyebrows.
"Perhaps, because I wish it so very much; and hope and faith are nearly allied, you know; and perhaps more than this—because I have prayed so long for his return."
She sat with her hands folded, looking quietly into the glowing grate. The old man watched her a moment, as the firelight glared over her grave, composed face, and tears came suddenly into his eyes.
"When Harry Hartwell died (about eighteen months since) he left his share of the estate to Guy. It is one of the finest plantations in the State, and for the last three years the crops have been remarkably good. The cotton has been sold regularly, and the bulk of the money is still in the hands of the factor. Yesterday I happened to pass the old house, and rode in to see how things looked; positively, child, you would scarcely recognize the place. You know the Farleys only occupied it a few months; since that time it has been rented. Just now it is vacant, and such a deserted-looking tenement I have not seen for many days. As far as I am concerned—"
Here a servant entered to inform the doctor that he was wanted immediately to see one of his patients. He kicked off his slippers, and got up, grumbling: