She was awakened by the cool pattering of raindrops, which beat
through the shutters and fell upon her face. She sprang up with a
thrill of delight and looked out. A leaden sky lowered over the
city, and as the torrents came down in whitening sheets, the thunder
rolled continuously overhead, and trailing wreaths of smoke from the
dying fires drooped like banners over the roofs of the houses. Not
the shower which gathered and fell around seagirt Carmel was more
gratefully received.

"Thank God! it rains!" cried Beulah, and, turning toward Clara, she
saw with pain that the sufferer was all unconscious of the tardy
blessing. She kissed the hot, dry brow; but no token of recognition
greeted her anxious gaze. The fever was at its height; the delicate
features were strangely sharpened and distorted. Save the sound of
her labored breathing, the room was silent, and, sinking on her
knees, Beulah prayed earnestly that the gentle sufferer might be
spared. As she rose her guardian entered, and she started at the
haggard, wasted, harassed look of the noble face, which she had not
observed before. He bent down and coaxed Clara to take a spoonful of
medicine, and Beulah asked earnestly: "Have you been ill, sir?"

"No."

He did not even glance at her. The affectionate cordiality of the
hour of meeting had utterly vanished. He looked as cold, stern, and
impenetrable as some half-buried sphinx of the desert.