"Clara Sanders, I don't believe one word of all this languishing

nonsense. As to my being nothing more nor less than a sickly

geranium, I know better. If you have concluded that you belong to

that dependent family of plants, I pity you sincerely, and beg that

you will not put me in any such category. Duty may be a cold shadow

to you, but it is a vast volcanic agency constantly impelling me to

action. What was my will given to me for, if to remain passive and

suffer others to minister to its needs? Don't talk to me about

woman's clinging, dependent nature. You are opening your lips to

repeat that senseless simile of oaks and vines; I don't want to hear

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it; there are no creeping tendencies about me. You can wind, and

lean, and hang on somebody else if you like; but I feel more like

one of those old pine trees yonder. I can stand up. Very slim, if

you will, but straight and high. Stand by myself; battle with wind

and rain and tempest roar; be swayed and bent, perhaps, in the

storm, but stand unaided, nevertheless, I feel humbled when I hear a

woman bemoaning the weakness of her sex, instead of showing that she

has a soul and mind of her own inferior to none."

"All that sounds very heroic in the pages of a novel, but the

reality is quite another matter. A tame, joyless, hopeless time you

will have if you scorn good fortune, as you threaten, and go into

the world to support yourself," answered Clara impatiently.

"I would rather struggle with her for a crust than hang on her

garments asking a palace. I don't know what has come over you. You

are strangely changed!" cried Beulah, pressing her hands on her

friend's shoulders.

"The same change will come over you when you endure what I have.

With all your boasted strength, you are but a woman; have a woman's

heart, and one day will be unable to hush its hungry cries."

"Then I will crush it, so help me Heaven!" answered Beulah.

"No! sorrow will do that time enough; no suicidal effort will be

necessary." For the first time Beulah marked an expression of

bitterness in the usually gentle, quiet countenance. She was pained

more than she chose to evince, and, seeing Dr. Hartwell's carriage

at the door, prepared to return home.

"Tell him that I am very grateful for his kind offer; that his

friendly remembrance is dear to a bereaved orphan. Ah, Beulah! I

have known him from my childhood, and he has always been a friend as

well as a physician. During my mother's long illness he watched her

carefully and constantly, and when we tendered him the usual

recompense for his services he refused all remuneration, declaring

he had only been a friend. He knew we were poor, and could ill

afford any expense. Oh, do you wonder that I--Are you going

immediately? Come often when I get to a boarding house. Do, Beulah!

I am so desolate; so desolate!" She bowed her head on Beulah's

shoulder and wept unrestrainedly.




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