"There is not a word about Chatterton in that sketch," said the doctor. She started, looked up, and answered slowly: "No, not a word, not a word. He was buried among paupers, you know." "What made you think of him?" "I thought that instead of resting in the Abbey, under sculptured marble, his bones were scattered, nobody knows where. I often think of him." "Why?" "Because he was so miserable and uncared-for; because sometimes I feel exactly as he did." As she uttered these words she compressed her lips in a manner which plainly said, "There, I have no more to say, so do not question me." He had learned to read her countenance, and as he felt the infant's pulse, pointed to the crib, saying: "You must lay him down now; he seems fast asleep." "No, I may as well hold him." "Girl, will you follow my directions?" said he sharply. Beulah looked up at him for a moment, then rose and placed the boy in his crib, while a sort of grim smile distorted her features. The doctor mixed some medicine, and, setting the glass on the table, put both hands in his pockets and walked up to the nurse. Her head was averted. "Beulah, will you be good enough to look at me?" She fixed her eyes proudly on his, and her beautiful teeth gleamed through the parted lips. "Do you know that Eugene is going away very soon, to be absent at least five years?" An incredulous smile flitted over her face, but the ashen hue of death settled there. "I am in earnest. He leaves for Europe next week, to be gone a long time." She extended her hands pleadingly, and said in a hoarse whisper: "Are you sure?" "Quite sure; his passage is already engaged in a packet that will sail early next week. What will become of you in his absence?" The strained eyes met his, vacantly; the icy hands dropped, and she fell forward against him. Guy Hartwell placed the slight, attenuated form on the sofa, and stood with folded arms looking down at the colorless face. His high white brow clouded, and a fierce light kindled in his piercing dark eyes, as through closed teeth came the rather indistinct words: "It is madness to indulge the thought; I was a fool to dream of it. She would prove heartless, like all of her sex, and repay me with black ingratitude. Let her fight the battle of life unaided." He sprinkled a handful of water on the upturned face, and in a few minutes saw the eyelids tremble, and knew from the look of suffering that with returning consciousness came the keen pangs of grief. She covered her face with her hands, and, after a little while, asked: "Shall I ever see him again?" "He will come here to-night to tell you about his trip. But what will become of you in his absence?--answer me that!" "God only knows!" Dr. Hartwell wrote the directions for Johnny's medicine, and, placing the slip of paper on the glass, took his hat and left the room. Beulah sat with her head pressed against the foot of the crib- -stunned, taking no note of the lapse of time.