Here were the paintings and statues she had long been so familiar with,
and here, too, the melodeon which at rare intervals she opened. The
house was very quiet; not a sound came up from below; she raised the
lid of the instrument, and played a plaintive prelude. Echoes seven
or eight years old suddenly fell on her ears; she had not heard one
note of this air since she left Dr. Hartwell's roof. It was a
favorite song of his; a German hymn he had taught her, and now after
seven years she sang it. It was a melancholy air, and, as her
trembling voice rolled through the house, she seemed to live the old
days over again. But the words died away on her lips; she had
overestimated her strength; she could not sing it. The marble images
around her, like ghosts of the past, looked mutely down at her
grief.

She could not weep; her eyes were dry, and there was an
intolerable weight on her heart. Just before her stood the Niobe,
rigid and woeful; she put her hands over her eyes, and drooped her
face on the melodeon. Gloom and despair crouched at her side, their
gaunt hands tugging at the anchor of hope. The wind rose and howled
round the corners of the house; how fierce it might be on trackless
seas, driving lonely barks down to ruin and strewing the main with
ghastly upturned faces! She shuddered and groaned. It was a dark
hour of trial, and she struggled desperately with the phantoms that
clustered about her. Then there came other sounds: Charon's shrill,
frantic bark and whine of delight. For years she had not heard that
peculiar bark, and started up in wonder. On the threshold stood a
tall form, with a straw hat drawn down over the features; but
Charon's paws were on the shoulders and his whine of delight ceased
not. He fell down at his master's feet and caressed them. Beulah
looked an instant, and sprang into the doorway, holding out her
arms, with a wild, joyful cry.