"What makes you look so solemn?" asked Clara, who had been busily
engaged in dressing a doll for one of Mrs. Hoyt's children.

"Because I feel solemn, I suppose."

Clara came up and, passing her arm round Beulah's shoulder, gazed
down into the noisy street. She still wore mourning, and the
alabaster fairness of her complexion contrasted vividly with the
black bombazine dress. Though thin and pale, there was an
indescribable expression of peace on the sweet face; a calm, clear
light of contentment in the mild, brown eyes. The holy serenity of
the countenance was rendered more apparent by the restless, stormy
visage of her companion. Every passing cloud of perplexed thought
cast its shadow over Beulah's face, and on this occasion she looked
more than usually grave.

"Ah, how merry I used to be on Christmas Eve! Indeed, I can remember
having been half wild with excitement. Yet now it all seems like a
flitting dream." Clara spoke musingly, yet without sadness.

"Time has laid his wonder-working touch upon you," answered Beulah.

"How is it, Beulah, that you never speak of your childhood?"

"Because it was "All dark and barren as a rainy sea."

"But you never talk about your parents?"

"I love my father's memory. Ah! it is enshrined in my heart's
holiest sanctuary. He was a noble, loving man, and my affection for
him bordered on idolatry."