"After four years of absence, of separation, have you no word of welcome ?"

She gave him both hands, and said, eagerly:

"Oh, yes, I am very glad to see you again, very glad that I have an opportunity of congratulating you on your signal success. I am heartily glad my friend is soon to enter Congressional halls. Accept my most sincere congratulations on your election."

A sudden flush rose to his temples, and clasping her hands tightly, he exclaimed, passionately:

"Oh, Beulah, your congratulations mock me. I come to offer you, once more, my hand, my heart, my honours, if I have any. I have waited patiently: no, not patiently, but still I have waited, for some token of remembrance from you, and could bear my suspense no longer. Will you share the position which has been accorded me recently? Will you give me this hand which I desire more intensely than the united honours of the universe beside ? Beulah, has my devoted love won me your affection? Will you go with me to Washington ?"

"I cannot; I cannot."

"Cannot? Oh, Beulah, I would make you a happy wife, if it cost me my life!"

"No. I could not be happy as your wife. It is utterly impossible. Mr. Lindsay, I told you long ago you could never be more than a friend."

"And have years wrought no change in your heart ?"

"Years have strengthened my esteem, my sincere friendship, bu more than this, all time cannot accomplish."

"Your heart is tenacious of its idol," he answered, moodily.

"It rebels, sir, now as formerly, at the thought of linking my destiny with that of one whom I never loved." Beulah spoke rapidly, her cheeks burned and her eyes sparkled with displeasure.

He looked at her and sighed deeply, then threw down a letter, saying:

"Ah, Beulah, I understood long ago why you could not love me; but I hoped years of absence would obliterate the memory that prevented my winning you. I made unusual exertions to discover some trace of your wandering guardian; have written constantly to my former banker in Paris, to find some clue to his whereabouts. Through him I learn that your friend was last heard of at Canton, and the supposition is that he is no longer living. I do not wish to pain you, Beulah; but I would fain show you how frail a hope you cling to. Believe me, dear Beulah, I am not so selfish as to rejoice at his prolonged absence. No, no. Love, such as mine, prizes the happiness of its object above all other things. Were it in my power, I would restore him to you this moment. I had hoped you would learn to love me, but I erred in judging your nature. Henceforth, I will cast off this hope, and

school myself to regard you as my friend only. I have, at least, deserved your friendship.

"And it is inalienably yours," cried she, very earnestly.

"In future, when toiling to discharge my duties, I may believe I have one sincere friend, who will rejoice at my success?"

"Of this you may well rest assured. It seems a poor return, Mr. Lindsay, for all you have tendered me; but it is the most I can give, the most an honest heart will allow me to offer. Truly, you may always claim my friendship and esteem, if it has any worth."

"I prize it far more than your hand, unaccompanied by your heart. Henceforth, we will speak of the past no more; only let me be the friend an orphan may require. You are to live in my uncle's house, I believe; I am very glad you have decided to do so; this is not a proper home for you now. How do you contrive to exorcise loneliness ?"

"I do not always succeed very well. My flowers are a great resource; I don't know how I should live without them. My books, too, serve to occupy my attention." She was making a

great effort to seem cheerful, but he saw that her smile was forced; and with an assurance that he would see her again before he went to Washington, he shook hands cordially, and left her. She tied her bouquet, and dispatched it to the sick child, with a few lines of kind remembrance; then took the letter, which Mr. Lindsay had thrown on the steps, and opened it, with trembling fingers:

MR. R. LINDSAY.

"DEAR SIR: Yours of the 3d came to hand yesterday. As I wrote you before, I accidentally learned that Dr. Hartwell had been in Canton; but since that, have heard nothing from him, and have been unable to trace him further. Letters from Calcutta state that he left that city, more than a year since, for China. Should I obtain any news of him, rest assured it shall be immediately transmitted to you.

"Very respectfully,

"R. A. FIELDS."

She crumpled the sheet, and threw it from her; and if ever earnest, heart-spoken prayer availed, her sobbing cry to the God of travellers insured his safety.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

LETTER FROM PAULINE-HER HAPPINESS-BEULAH'S REFLECTIONS-THE GRAVE OF CORNELIA-A BELIEVER

lpag

NOW

READS TO DR. ASBURY FROM BUTLER'S ANALOGY.

NE day there came a letter, postmarked from an inland town where Beulah had no correspondent. The direction, however, was instantly recognized, and she broke the seal hurriedly :

"What has become of you, Beulah? and what can have become of my two letters which were never answered? Concluding you never received them, I hazard a third attempt to reach you through the medium of letters. You will readily perceive that we have removed to a distant section of the State. Ernest was called to take charge of this parish, and we are delightfully located here, within a few minutes' walk of the church. Beulah, the storm which darkened over me in the first year of my marriage, has swept by, and it is all sunshine, glorious sunshine, with me. You know my home was very unhappy for a time. My husband's family caused misunderstandings between us, influenced him against me, and made me very, very wretched. I could not tolerate Lucy's presence, with any degree of patience, yet she would remain in our house. How it would have ended only Heaven knows, had not my husband been suddenly taken very ill. It was on Sabbath

morning. He was displeased with me, because of some of my disputes with his sister, and scarcely spoke to me before he went into the pulpit. Lucy and I sat together in the rector's pew, hating each other cordially; and when Ernest began the morning service, I noticed he looked pale and weary. Before it was concluded, he sank back exhausted, and was borne into the vestry-room, covered with blood. He had a severe hemorrhage from the throat, his physician said, but Ernest thinks it was from his lungs. I was sure he would die; and oh, Beulah, what agony I endured, as I sat be„side him, and watched his ghastly face! But his illness was 'the blessing in disguise;' he forgot all our disgraceful bickerings, and was never satisfied unless I was with him. Lucy grumbled, and sneered, and looked sour, but I had my husband's heart again, and determined to keep it. As soon as he was strong enough, I told him how wretched I had been, and how sincerely I desired to make him happy, if Lucy would only not interfere. He saw that our

domestic peace was dependent upon the change, and from that hour his sister ceased meddling with my affairs. What he said to her I never knew; but soon after his recovery, she returned to her

parents, and I was left in peace. I began, in sober earnest, to be all my husband wished me; read the books he liked (though it was a terrible bore at first); read to him; took part in all the societies connected with his church; and, in short, became quite a demure pastor's wife. Occasionally, my old fondness for fun would break out, to the horror of some of his antediluvian flock; but Ernest was very good, and bore patiently with me, and now I am as prim and precise as any old maid of sixty. At home I do as I like, that is, when Ernest likes it too. I sing, and play, and romp, with the dogs and kittens; but the moment the door bell rings, lo, a demure matron receives her guests! Ernest's health is quite restored, and I am as happy as the day is long. You should see me working in my garden, and sometimes churning before breakfast, to give Ernest a fresh glass of buttermilk. I would not change places with an empress, I am so happy. My husband loves me better than everything else beside, and what more could I desire ? Do come and see me; we would be so delighted to have you spend some time in our home. I am such a genuine rustic, you would scarcely recognize me. Just fancy me with an apron on, my sleeves rolled up, churning as fast as the dasher can fly, and singing at the top of my voice. Mother was perfectly shocked, when she first came to live with me, and vowed I should not make a 'drudge' of myself. Drudge, indeed, because I chose to do something, with my own hands, for my husband! I told her I would 'drudge,' as she called it, just as long as Ernest loved such things as I could prepare for him myself; and I read her those famous remarks of Lady Mary Montagu, in which all domestic pursuits, even cooking, is dignified as a labour of love; whereupon Ernest gave me a kiss, and mother declined any further argumentation on the subject. How some of my fashionable city friends would elevate their fastidious noses at seeing me, with my check aprons, picking strawberries, or arranging curds for tea! Come and see me; do, Beulah; I am the very happiest woman extant, that is, I would be, if I could only know something of Uncle Guy. It is almost five years since he left home, and for a long, long time we have heard nothing from him. This is the only sorrow I have. Sometimes I fear he must have died in some distant land, yet will not believe it. I want to see him very much, my heart aches when I think about him. Dear Uncle Guy! next to my husband, I believe I love him best. Can't you tell me something of him? or do you know as little as his relatives. Ernest says he will walk into our house some day, without any intimation of his coming. Oh, I hope so! I endeavour to believe so! Do write to me. I often think of you, in your loneliness, and wish you were as happy as your friend,

"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 once loved her guardian; how could she possibly forget him so entirely? Was love a mere whim of the hour, fostered by fortuitously favourable 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: