As she turned her steps homeward a shadowy smile stole over her
features, and the lines about her mouth resumed their wonted
composure.
"Beulah, father has been asking for you," said Georgia, who met her
on the staircase.
"I will go down to him immediately," was the cheerful answer, and,
putting away her bonnet and shawl, she went at once to the library.
The doctor was leaning very far back in his favorite chair, and she
saw at a glance he had fallen asleep.
Mrs. Asbury sat at a table, weighing out some medicine he had
directed sent to a patient. She looked up as Beulah entered, smiled,
and said in an undertone: "My liege lord is indulging in a nap. Come to the fire, dear; you
look cold."
She left the room with the medicine, and Beulah stood before the
bright wood fire and watched the ruddy light flashing grotesquely
over the pictures on the wall. The gas had not yet been lighted; she
crossed the room, and sat down before the window. A red glow still
lingered in the west, and, one by one, the stars came swiftly out.
She took up a book she had been reading that morning; but it was too
dim to see the letters, and she contented herself with looking out
at the stars, brightening as the night deepened. "So should it be
with faith," thought she, "and yet, as troubles come thick and fast,
we are apt to despair." Mrs. Asbury came back and lighted the gas,
but Beulah was too much absorbed to notice it. The doctor waked, and
began to talk about the severity of the winter further north and the
suffering it produced among the poor. Presently he said: "What has become of that child Beulah--do you know, Alice?"
"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.