Beulah | Page 4

the zenith, and the slanting rays flamed over
the window panes of a large brick building, bearing on its front in
golden letters the inscription "Orphan Asylum." The structure was
commodious, and surrounded by wide galleries, while the situation
offered a silent tribute to the discretion and good sense of the board of
managers who selected the suburbs instead of the more densely
populated portion of the city. The whitewashed palings inclosed, as a
front yard or lawn, rather more than an acre of ground, sown in grass
and studded with trees, among which the shelled walks meandered
gracefully. A long avenue of elms and poplars extended from the gate
to the principal entrance, and imparted to the Asylum an imposing and
venerable aspect. There was very little shrubbery, but here and there
orange boughs bent beneath their load of golden fruitage, while the

glossy foliage, stirred by the wind, trembled and glistened in the
sunshine. Beyond the inclosure stretched the common, dotted with
occasional clumps of pine and leafless oaks, through which glimpses of
the city might be had. Building and grounds wore a quiet, peaceful,
inviting look, singularly appropriate for the purpose designated by the
inscription "Orphan Asylum," a haven for the desolate and miserable.
The front door was closed, but upon the broad granite steps, where the
sunlight lay warm and tempting, sat a trio of the inmates. In the
foreground was a slight fairy form, "a wee winsome thing," with coral
lips, and large, soft blue eyes, set in a frame of short, clustering golden
curls. She looked about six years old, and was clad, like her
companions, in canary-colored flannel dress and blue- check apron.
Lillian was the pet of the asylum, and now her rosy cheek rested upon
her tiny white palm, as though she wearied of the picture-book which
lay at her feet. The figure beside her was one whose marvelous beauty
riveted the gaze of all who chanced to see her. The child could have
been but a few months older than Lillian, yet the brilliant black eyes,
the peculiar curve of the dimpled mouth, and long, dark ringlets, gave
to the oval face a maturer and more piquant loveliness. The cast of
Claudia's countenance bespoke her foreign parentage, and told of the
warm, fierce Italian blood that glowed in her cheeks. There was
fascinating grace in every movement, even in the easy indolence of her
position, as she bent on one knee to curl Lillian's locks over her finger.
On the upper step, in the rear of these two, sat a girl whose age could
not have been very accurately guessed from her countenance, and
whose features contrasted strangely with those of her companions. At a
first casual glance, one thought her rather homely, nay, decidedly ugly;
yet, to the curious physiognomist, this face presented greater attractions
than either of the others. Reader, I here paint you the portrait of that
quiet little figure whose history is contained in the following pages. A
pair of large gray eyes set beneath an overhanging forehead, a boldly
projecting forehead, broad and smooth; a rather large but finely cut
mouth, an irreproachable nose, of the order furthest removed from
aquiline, and heavy black eyebrows, which, instead of arching,
stretched straight across and nearly met. There was not a vestige of
color in her cheeks; face, neck, and hands wore a sickly pallor, and a
mass of rippling, jetty hair, drawn smoothly over the temples, rendered

this marble-like whiteness more apparent. Unlike the younger children,
Beulah was busily sewing upon what seemed the counterpart of their
aprons; and the sad expression of the countenance, the lips firmly
compressed, as if to prevent the utterance of complaint, showed that she
had become acquainted with cares and sorrows, of which they were yet
happily ignorant. Her eyes were bent down on her work, and the long,
black lashes nearly touched her cold cheeks.
"Sister Beulah, ought Claudy to say that?" cried Lillian, turning round
and laying her hand upon the piece of sewing.
"Say what, Lilly? I was not listening to you."
"She said she hoped that largest robin redbreast would get drunk and
tumble down. He would be sure to bump some of his pretty bright
feathers out, if he rolled over the shells two or three times," answered
Lilly, pointing to a China tree near, where a flock of robins were
eagerly chirping over the feast of berries.
"Why, Claudy! how can you wish the poor little fellow such bad luck?"
The dark, thoughtful eyes, full of deep meaning, rested on Claudia's
radiant face.
"Oh! you need not think I am a bear, or a hawk, ready to swallow the
darling little beauty alive! I would not have him lose a feather for the
world; but I