"Pardon me; I have no right to dictate the terms in which you should mention your benefactor." Beulah's intuitions were remarkably quick, and she asked slowly:
"Do you know him well?"
"Yes; oh, yes! very well indeed. Why do you ask?"
"And you like him very much?"
"Very much."
She saw the gentle face now, and saw that some sorrow had called tears to the eyes, and sent the blood coldly back to her heart.
"No one can like him as I do. You don't know how very kind he has been to me—me, the miserable, lonely orphan," murmured Beulah, as his smile and tones recurred to her.
"Yes, I can imagine, because I know his noble heart; and, therefore, child, I say you cannot realize how privileged you are."
The discussion was cut short by a call to recitation, and too calmly happy in the knowledge of Eugene's safety to ponder her companion's manner, Beulah sank into a reverie, in which Eugene, and Heidelberg, and long letters mingled pleasingly. Later in the day, as she and Pauline were descending the steps, the door of the primary department of the school opened, and a little girl, clad in deep black, started up the same flight of steps. Seeing the two above, she leaned against the wall, waiting for them to pass. Beulah stood still, and the sachel she carried fell unheeded from her hand, while a thrilling cry broke from the little girl's lips; and, springing up the steps, she threw herself into Beulah's arms.
"Dear Beulah! I have found you at last!" She covered the thin face with passionate kisses; then heavy sobs escaped her, and the two wept bitterly together.