They reached home in the gloaming, and each retired to her own room. For a mere trifle Beulah had procured the use of a melodeon, and now, after placing the drooping flowers in water, she sat down before the instrument and poured out the joy of her soul in song. Sad memories no longer floated like corpses on the sea of the past; grim forebodings crouched among the mists of the future, and she sang song after song, exulting in the gladness of her heart. An analysis of these occasional hours of delight was as impossible as their creation. Sometimes she was conscious of their approach, while gazing up at the starry islets in the boundless lake of azure sky; or when a gorgeous sunset pageant was passing away; sometimes from hearing a solemn chant in church, or a witching strain from a favorite opera. Sometimes from viewing dim old pictures; sometimes from reading a sublime passage in some old English or German author. It was a serene elevation of feeling; an unbounded peace; a chastened joyousness, which she was rarely able to analyze, but which isolated her for a time from all surrounding circumstances. How long she sang on the present occasion she knew not, and only paused on hearing a heavy sob behind her. Turning round, she saw Clara sitting near, with her face in her hands. Kneeling beside her, Beulah wound her arms around her, and asked earnestly: "What troubles you, my friend? May I not know?" Clara dropped her head on Beulah's shoulder, and answered hesitatingly: "The tones of your voice always sadden me. They are like organ notes, solemn and awful! Yes, awful; and yet very sweet--sweeter than any music I ever heard. Your singing fascinates me, yet, strange as it may seem, it very often makes me weep. There is an unearthliness, a spirituality that affects me singularly." "I am glad that is all. I was afraid you were distressed about something. Here, take my rocking chair; I am going to read, and, if you like, you may have the benefit of my book." "Beulah, do put away your books for one night, and let us have a quiet time. Don't study now. Come, sit here, and talk to me." "Flatterer, do you pretend that you prefer my chattering to the wonderful words of a man who 'talked like an angel'? You must listen to the tale of that 'Ancient Mariner with glittering eye.'" "Spare me that horrible ghostly story of vessels freighted with staring corpses! Ugh! it curdled the blood in my veins once, and I shut the book in disgust. Don't begin it now, for Heaven's sake!" "Why, Clara! It is the most thrilling poem in the English language. Each reperusal fascinates me more and more. It requires a dozen readings to initiate you fully into its weird, supernatural realms."