He drew his arm protectingly around her, and said gently: "Poor child; it is cruel to make you suffer so. But rest assured Dr. Hartwell will never wound your feelings. I have heard that he was a very stern and eccentric man, though a remarkably learned one, yet I confess there is something in his manner which fascinates me, and if you will only be like yourself he will always speak kindly to you. But I am staying too long. Don't look so forlorn and ghostly. Positively I hate to come to see you, for somehow your wretched face haunts me. Here is a book I have just finished; perhaps it will serve to divert your mind." He put a copy of Irving's "Sketch Book" in her hand, and drew on his gloves. "Oh, Eugene, can't you stay a little longer--just a little longer? It seems such a great while since you were here." She looked up wistfully into the handsome, boyish face. Drawing out an elegant new watch, he held it before her eyes, and answered hurriedly: "See there; it is ten o'clock, and I am behind my appointment at the lecture room. Good-by; try to be cheerful. 'What can't be cured must be endured,' you know, so do not despond, dear Beulah." Shaking her hand cordially, he ran down the steps. The orphan pressed her hands tightly over her brow, as if to stay some sudden, painful thought, and slowly remounted the stairs. CHAPTER V. Little Johnny's illness proved long and serious, and for many days and nights he seemed on the verge of the tomb. His wailings were never hushed except in Beulah's arms, and, as might be supposed, constant watching soon converted her into a mere shadow of her former self. Dr. Hartwell often advised rest and fresh air for her, but the silent shake of her head proved how reckless she was of her own welfare. Thus several weeks elapsed, and gradually the sick child grew stronger. One afternoon Beulah sat holding him on her knee: he had fallen asleep, with one tiny hand clasping hers, and while he slept she read. Absorbed in the volume Eugene had given her, her thoughts wandered on with the author, amid the moldering monuments of Westminster Abbey, and finally the sketch was concluded by that solemn paragraph: "Thus man passes away; his name perishes from record and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told, and his very monument becomes a ruin." Again she read this sad comment on the vanity of earth and its ephemeral hosts, and her mind was filled with weird images, that looked out from her earnest eyes. Dr. Hartwell entered unperceived, and stood for some moments at the back of her chair, glancing over her shoulder at the last page. At length she closed the book, and, passing her hand wearily over her eyes, said audibly: "Ah! if we could only have sat down together in that gloomy garret, and had a long talk! It would have helped us both. Poor Chatterton! I know just how you felt, when you locked your door and lay down on your truckle-bed, and swallowed your last draught!"