Cornelia was propped up by cushions and pillows in her easy-chair;
her head was thrown back, and her gaze appeared to be riveted on a
painting which hung opposite. Beulah stood beside her a moment,
unnoticed, and saw with painful surprise the ravages which disease
had made in the once beautiful face and queenly form. The black,
shining hair was cut short, and clustered in thick, wavy locks about
the wan brow, now corrugated as by some spasm of pain. The cheeks
were hollow and ghastly pale; the eyes sunken, but unnaturally large
and brilliant; and the colorless lips compressed as though to bear
habitual suffering. Her wasted hands, grasping the arms of the
chair, might have served as a model for a statue of death, so thin,
pale, almost transparent. Beulah softly touched one of them, and
said: "Cornelia, you wished to see me."

The invalid looked at her intently, and smiled.

"I thought you would come. Ah, Beulah, do you recognize this wreck
as your former friend?"

"I was not prepared to find you so changed; for until this afternoon
I was not aware your trip had been so fruitless. Do you suffer
much?"

"Suffer! Yes; almost all the time. But it is not the bodily torture
that troubles me so much--I could bear that in silence. It is my
mind, Beulah; my mind."

She pointed to a chair; Beulah drew it near her, and Cornelia
continued: "I thought I should die suddenly; but it is to be otherwise The
torture is slow, lingering. I shall never leave this house again,
except to go to my final home. Beulah, I have wanted to see you very
much; I thought you would hear of my illness and come. How calm and
pale you are! Give me your hand. Ah, cool and pleasant; mine parched
with fever. And you have a little home of your own, I hear. How have
things gone with you since we parted? Are you happy?"