"Yes; I know you."
"How do you feel this morning?"
"I am very weak, and my head seems confused. How long have I been here?"
"No matter, child, if you are better." He took out his watch, and, after counting her pulse, prepared some medicine, and gave her a potion. Her features twitched, and she asked tremblingly, as if afraid of her own question:
"Have they buried her?"
"Yes; a week ago."
She closed her eyes with a groan, and her face became convulsed; then she lay quite still, with a wrinkled brow. Dr. Hartwell sat down by her, and, taking one of her wasted little hands in his, said gently:
"Beulah, you have been very ill. I scarcely thought you would recover; and now, though much better, you must not agitate yourself, for you are far too weak to bear it."
"Why didn't you let me die? Oh, it would have been a mercy!" She put her hand over her eyes, and a low cry wailed through the room.
"Because I wanted you to get well, and live here, and be my little friend, my child. Now, Beulah, I have saved you, and you belong to me. When you are stronger we will talk about all you want to know; but to-day you must keep quiet, and not think of what distresses you. Will you try?"