Beth lingered a little, gazing at the clear frosty scene before her, then rose with a firm look on her face and went up to her room. There was one thing more to be done before she left home to-morrow. She had resolved upon it. It was dark in her room, but she needed no light to recognize that roll of manuscript in her drawer. She hesitated a moment as she touched it tenderly. Must she do it? Yes, ah, yes! She could not publish that story now. Just then the picture of Arthur seemed to flash through her mind, reading it and tossing it down with that cold, silent look she had sometimes seen on his face. It was dark in the hall as she carried it down to the drawing-room grate. She crouched down on the hearth-rug before the coals, and a moment later the flames that played among the closely-written sheets lighted her face. Nothing but a blackened parchment now for all that proud dream of fame! The room grew dark again, and only the coals cracking and snapping, and the steady ticking of the old clock on the mantel piece above her head, broke the stillness. It was done. She went to the window and knelt down.

"Father, I have sacrificed it for Thee. Take this talent Thou hast given me and use it for Thy honor, for I would serve Thee alone, Father."

She slept that night with a smile on her lips. Yes, friend, it was a hero's deed, and He who alone witnessed it hath sealed her brow with a light such as martyrs wear in heaven. As for the world, oh, that every book filled with dark doubts and drifting fears and shuddering gloom had perished, too, in those flames!



CHAPTER IX.

'VARSITY AGAIN.

In a few days Beth was settled again at Mrs. Owen's, on St. Mary's Street, and tripping to her lectures as usual. Marie was not there, of course, and Beth knew nothing of her whereabouts. In fact, there had been a complete change of boarders. The house was filled with 'Varsity girls this year, with the exception of Marie's old room, a change which Beth appreciated. One of the girls was a special friend of hers, a plump, dignified little creature whom most people called pretty. Hers was certainly a jolly face, with those rosy cheeks and laughing brown eyes, and no one could help loving Mabel Clayton. She belonged to the Students' Volunteer Movement, and as this was her last year at college, Beth thought sometimes a little sorrowfully of the following autumn when she was to leave for India.

Beth meant to have her spend a few days at Briarsfield with her next summer. But a good many things were to happen to Beth before the next summer passed. A Victoria student was occupying Marie's old room, but as he took his meals out of the house Beth never even saw him. One of the girls who saw him in the hall one day described him as "just too nice looking for anything," but Beth's interest was not aroused in the stranger.

That was a golden autumn for Beth, the happiest by far she had ever known. She was living life under that sweet plan of beginning every day afresh, and thinking of some little act of kindness to be done. Beth soon began to believe the girls of University College were the very kindest in the world; but she would have been surprised, to hear how often they remarked, "Beth Woodburn is always so kind!" There was another treat that she was enjoying this year, and that was Dr. Tracy's lectures.

"I think he is an ideal man," she remarked once to Mabel Clayton. "I'm not in love with him, but I think he's an ideal man."

Mabel was an ardent admirer of Dr. Tracy's, too, but she could not help laughing at Beth's statement.

"You are such a hero-worshipper, Beth!" she said. "You put a person up on a pedestal, and then endow him with all the virtues under the sun."

A peculiar look crossed Beth's face. She remembered one whom she had placed on the pedestal of genius, and the idol had fallen, shattered at her feet.

She was still the same emotional Beth. There were times when without any outward cause, seemingly from a mere overflow of happiness, she almost cried out, "Oh stay, happy moment, till I drink to the full my draught of joy!"

Arthur's painting hung above Beth's study table, and sometimes a shadow crossed her face as she looked at it. She missed the old friendship, and she wondered, too, that she never met him anywhere.

Beth did not go home at Thanksgiving that year, and she almost regretted it the evening before. She was a little homesick for "daddy," and to dispel her loneliness she shut up her books and went to bed early. Her head had scarcely touched the pillow when, hark! there was a sound of music in the drawing-room down-stairs. She rose in bed to listen, it was so like Arthur's music. She was not at all familiar with the piece, but it thrilled her somehow. There was a succession, of sweet, mellow notes at first; then higher, higher, higher, broader, deeper, fuller, it was bearing her very soul away! Then sweeter, softer, darker, tint of gold and touch of shadow, the tears were standing in her eyes! Clearer again, and more triumphant! Her lips parted as she listened. One sweet prolonged swell, and it died away. She listened for more, but all was silent. She looked out of the window at the stars in the clear sky, and the dark shadow of St. Michael's tower on the snow-covered college roof, then fell back among the pillows to sleep and dream.

She was walking again on the old path by the road-side at home, just as she used to go every evening for the milk. The dusk was deepening and she began to hurry, when she noticed a tall, dark figure ahead. As she drew nearer she recognized Arthur's broad shoulders and well-set head. Then a strange, indefinable fear seized her. She did not want to overtake him, to meet him face to face. She tried to slacken her steps, but a mysterious, resistless wind seemed to bear her forward against her will. Not a leaf stirred. All was still around her, and yet that uncanny, spirit-like wind urged her on. She struggled, and although Arthur never looked back, she felt that he knew all about her struggles. At last she made one mighty effort and tore herself free. She took the path on the other side of the road. It was all quiet there, and she walked on slowly. The darkness grew thicker, and she lost sight of Arthur. Then the country became quite new to her. There were bridges every little way—old rickety bridges, that creaked beneath her step, with holes where she caught her feet, and she could hear the great wild torrents rushing below in the darkness. She grew frightened. Oh, how she wished Arthur were there! Then suddenly it grew lighter, and she saw that her path was turning, and lo! there was Arthur! A moment more and their paths would meet. He reached the spot a few steps before her, and turning, looked at her just once, but she saw in his look that he knew all that had passed in her heart. "Follow me," he said, with a tender look; and she followed in silence where the path led between the steep, high banks, where strange flowers were clinging in the dim light. She was quite content now, not frightened any longer. Then the bank opened by their pathway, and he led her into a strange, sandy, desert-looking place. They entered a shadowy tent, and in the dim light she could see strange faces, to whom Arthur was talking. No one noticed her, but she did not feel slighted, for though he did not look at her, she felt that he was thinking of her. Then suddenly the strange faces vanished, and she was alone with Arthur. He came toward her with such a beautiful smile, and there was something in his hand of bright gold—the brightest gold she had ever seen. It was a golden spear with a tiny ring on one end and a mass of chain hanging to it; but lo! when she looked around her she saw it had filled the place with a beautiful mystic light, a golden halo. Then he drew her nearer, nearer to his bosom, and in a moment she felt the spear point touch her heart! An instant of pain, then it pierced her with a deep, sweet thrill. She felt it even to her finger tips. She awoke with a start, but she could almost feel that thrill even after she was awake. She could not sleep again quickly, but lay watching the stars and the moonlight growing paler on her book-case. Sleep came at length, and when she awoke again it was at the sound of Mr. Owen's jolly "Heigho! Everybody up! Everybody up!" This was a way he had of waking the children in good time for breakfast, and it had the merit of always arousing the boarders, too. Beth naturally supposed that the musician she had heard the night before had been a caller, and so made no enquiries.

The following Sunday evening Beth went to church alone. It was only three or four blocks up to the Central, and Beth was never timid. She did not look around the church much, or she would have recognized a familiar face on the east side. It was Clarence Mayfair's; he was paler than usual, and his light curly hair looked almost artificial in the gaslight. There was something sadder and more manly in his expression, and his eyes were fixed on Beth with a reverent look. How pure she was, he thought, how serene; her brow looked as though an angel-hand had smoothed it in her slumber. She seemed to breathe a benediction on everything around her; she reminded him of an image of an angel bending in prayer, that he had seen in one of the old cathedral windows across the sea. And yet, after knowing a woman like that, he had fancied he could—even fancied he did—love Marie de Vere. What folly had blinded him then, he wondered? Marie had her charms, to be sure, with those dark, bewitching eyes of hers, so kind and sympathetic, so bright and witty and entertaining. But there was something about Marie that was fleeting, something about Beth that was abiding; Marie's charms bewitched while she was present and were soon forgotten, but Beth's lingered in the memory and deepened with the years. It was well, after all, he thought, that Marie had refused his offer of marriage that morning he received Beth's note, and went to her in the heat of his passion. He was but a boy then, and yet it was only a few months ago. What was it that had changed him from boyhood to manhood so suddenly? He did not try to answer the question, but only felt conscious of the change within. He realized now that he had never known what it meant to love. Marie had shed her lustre on him as she passed; Beth he had never fully comprehended. He had a dim feeling that she was somehow too high for him. But would this reverence he felt for her ripen into love with the maturer years of his manhood? We never can tell the changes that time will weave in these hearts of ours. It is to be feared Clarence was not a very attentive listener throughout the service that night. At the close he waited for Beth in the moonlight outside, but she did not notice him till he was right beside her.

"Clarence!" she exclaimed, in a tone of astonishment. "Why, I thought you were in England."

"So I was; but I am back, you see."

"I thought you were going to take a year at Cambridge."

"I did intend to, but I found it too expensive. Besides, I thought I wouldn't bother finishing my course. I am doing some work along the journalistic line at present. I just came to Toronto last night, and intend to leave Tuesday or Wednesday."

In the first moment of her surprise she had forgotten everything except that Clarence was an old friend from home; but now, as he walked beside her, it all came back like a flash—the memory of that night last summer when she had seen him last. She grew suddenly silent and embarrassed. She longed to ask him about Marie; she wondered if they were engaged, and if so where she was, but she soon controlled herself and asked him about his trip to England, about his mother, about his work, about Edith and everything else of possible or impossible interest. She was relieved, without knowing why, that it was only a few blocks to her boarding-place. He lingered a moment as he said good-night, and something in his look touched her a little. Only the stirring of old memories. She hardly knew whether she was pleased or not to meet him again; but as she entered her room in the darkness her dream seemed to flash across her memory and a tender voice said, "Follow me."

Clarence strolled a little way into the park, pondering on the past. He had never asked Beth for an explanation of her farewell note. He naturally supposed that Arthur Grafton had gone directly to her that night and caused the rupture. He wondered if Arthur were in love with her. Then he turned suddenly and walked back by St. Mary's Street to Yonge. The street was almost deserted; there was only one figure in sight, a tall man drawing nearer. There was No.——, where he had left Beth at the door. He had just passed a few more doors when a familiar voice startled him. It was Arthur Grafton! Clarence felt ill at ease for a moment, but Arthur's tone was so kind it dispelled his embarrassment. They talked for a few moments, then parted; and Clarence, looking back a moment later, saw Arthur ring the bell at Beth's boarding-place. A peculiar look, almost a sneer, crossed his face for a moment.

"Ah, he is going in to spend the evening with his beloved," he thought.

And Clarence resolved, then and there, not to call on Beth the following day, as he had intended.

But Arthur proceeded absently to the room Marie had formerly occupied, without the slightest idea that Beth had lived in the house with him nearly two months. It was strange, but though he had seen all the other girls in the house he had never seen Beth. He had not enquired her address the year before, not wishing to know. He wished to have nothing to do with Clarence Mayfair's promised wife. She was nothing to him. Should he encourage the love he felt for another's wife? No! He had loved with all the strength of that love that comes but once to any human heart, and he had suffered as only the strong and silent can suffer; but he had resolved to bury his pain, and it had given his face a sterner look. So he lay down to rest that night all unconscious that Beth was in the room just overhead; that he had heard her footsteps daily, even listened to her humming little airs to unrecognizable tunes; but the sight of Clarence Mayfair had aroused the past, and he did not sleep till late.

The following afternoon, as Beth sat studying in her room after lectures, she heard a faint tap at her door, a timid knock that in some way seemed to appeal strangely to her. She opened the door—and there stood Marie! In the first moment of her surprise Beth forgot everything that had separated them, and threw both arms about her in the old child-like way. She seated her in the rocker by the window and they talked of various things for a while, but Beth noticed, now and then, an uneasy look in her eyes.

"She has come to tell me she is going to marry Clarence, and she finds it difficult, poor girl," thought Beth, with a heart full of sympathy.

"Beth," said Marie at last, "I have wronged you. I have come here to ask you to forgive me."

Beth belonged to the kind of people who are always silent in emergencies, so she only looked at her with her great tender eyes, in which there was no trace of resentment.

"I came between you and Clarence Mayfair. He never loved me. It was only a fancy. I amused and interested him, I suppose. That was all. He is true to you in the depths of his heart, Beth. It was my fault—all my fault. He never loved me. It was you he loved, but I encouraged him. It was wrong, I know."

Something seemed to choke her for a moment.

"Will you forgive me, Beth? Can you ever forgive?"

She was leaning forward gracefully, her fur cape falling back from her shoulders and her dark eyes full of tears.

Beth threw both arms about her old friend tenderly, forgetting all the bitter thoughts she had once had.

"Oh, Marie, dear, I love you—I love you still. Of course I forgive you."

Then Beth told her all the story of the past, and of that night when she had learned that Clarence did not love her, of her wounded vanity, her mistaken belief in the genuineness of her own love for him, and her gradual awakening to the fact that it was not love after all.

"Then it wasn't Mr. Grafton at all who made the trouble?" interrupted Marie.

"Mr. Grafton? Why, no! What could he have to do with it?"

"Oh, nothing. We thought, at least Clarence thought, he made the trouble."

Beth looked mystified, but Marie only continued in a softened tone:

"I am afraid you don't know your own heart, dear Beth. You will come together again, and all will be forgotten."

"No, Marie, never! The past was folly. All is better as it is."

A pained look that Beth could not fathom drifted across Marie's brow. "You think so now, but you will change," she said.

A knock at the door interrupted them just then, as Mrs. Owen announced a friend of Beth's.

Marie kissed her gently.

"Good-bye, Beth," she said in her sweet low voice, and there was a tender sadness in her dark eyes. Beth did not know its meaning at the time, but a day was coming when she would know.

Beth saw nothing more of Clarence during his few days in the city. She wondered sometimes if Marie had seen him, but though they saw each other occasionally during the rest of the winter, neither of them mentioned his name.

That week had seemed eventful in Beth's eyes, but it was more eventful even than she thought. The following Saturday, after tea, as Beth and Mabel Clayton were going back upstairs, Beth had seated Mabel by force on the first step of the second flight to tell her some funny little story. Beth was in one of her merry moods that night. Beth was not a wit, but she had her vein of mirth, and the girls used to say she was growing livelier every day. The gas was not lighted in the hall, but Beth had left her door open and the light shone out on the head of the stairs. A moment later they started up with their arms about each other's waist.

"Oh, Beth, I left that note-book down stairs. Wait, I'll bring it up to you."

Beth waited, standing in the light as her friend scampered down again. She heard the door of Marie's old room open, and a tall man stepped into the hall, but as it was dark below she could not see his face. She wondered, though, why he stood so still, and she had a consciousness that someone was looking at her.

Arthur Grafton—for it was he—stood for a moment as if stunned. There she was—Beth Woodburn! The woman he—hush! Clarence Mayfair's promised wife! She looked even beautiful as she stood there in the light, with a smile on her face and a pure white chrysanthemum at her throat.

"You needn't hurry so, Mabel dear. I can wait," she said as her friend approached.

It was over a year since he had heard that voice, and he had tried to believe his heart was deadened to its influence; but now to-night, at the first sound, it thrilled him again with its old-time music. A moment later she closed her door and the hall was dark, and his heart began to beat faster now that he grasped the truth. He turned again to his room, filled with the soft radiance of moonlight. He leaned back in his study chair, his eyes closed; he could hear the students of St. Michael's chanting an evening hymn, and an occasional cab rattled past in the street below. He noted it as we note all little details in our moments of high excitement. Then a smile gradually lighted up his face. Oh, sweet love! For one moment it seemed to be mastering him. She was there. Hark! Was that her footstep overhead? Oh, to be near her—to touch her hand just once!

Then a stern, dark frown settled on his brow. He rose and paced the room with a sort of frenzied step. What is she to you—Clarence Mayfair's promised wife? Arthur Grafton, what is she to you? Oh, that love, deep and passionate, that comes to us but once! That heart-cry of a strong soul for the one being it has enshrined! Sometimes it is gratified and bears in after years its fruits, whether sweet or bitter; or again, it is crushed—blighted in one moment, perhaps—and we go forth as usual trying to smile, and the world never knows, never dreams. A few years pass and our hearts grow numb to the pain, and we say we have forgotten—that love can grow cold. Cold? Yes; but the cold ashes will lie there in the heart—the dust of our dead ideal! Would such a fate be Arthur's? No. There was no room in that great pulsing heart of his for anything that was cold—no room for the chill of forgetfulness. Strive as he might, he knew he could never forget. What then remained? Even in that hour a holier radiance lighted his brow. Strong to bear the burdens and sorrows of others, he had learned to cast all his care upon One who had never forsaken him—even his unrequited love. He laid it on the altar of his God, to bloom afresh, a beauteous flower transplanted by the River of Life, beyond the blight of envy and of care—beyond, yet near enough to earth to scatter its fragrance in blessings down upon the head of her whom he—loved! Dare he say that word? Yes, in a sweeter, holier sense than before, as one might love the beings of another world. His face was quite calm as he turned on the light to resume his studies, but before beginning his work he looked a little sadly around the room. Yes, he had spent pleasant hours there, but he must leave, now. It was better that the same roof should not shelter them both. He did not wish to see Beth Woodburn again; and he just remembered that a friend of his was going to vacate a room on the other side of the park. He would take it early next week.

It was a week later, one afternoon, just before tea, that Beth and Mabel Clayton were sitting in the drawing-room with Mrs. Owen.

"Do you know any of the girls over at the college who would like to get a room, Miss Clayton?"

"No, but I might find some one."

"Mr. Grafton has moved out of his room for some reason, I don't know what."

"Mr.—whom did you say?" asked Beth.

"Mr. Grafton. Did you know him? A tall, dark fellow! Goes to Victoria. Quite good-looking!"

"Why, surely, can it be Arthur Grafton! That's just who it is! Why, how funny we never met each other coming in and out!"

"Did you know him, Beth?" asked Mabel. "I met him once or twice in the halls, but I didn't know you knew him."

"Yes, I have known him ever since we were children."

"Oh, then you have heard him play," said Mrs. Owens. "He played for us Thanksgiving eve. He's a splendid musician."

Beth felt just a tinge of disappointment that night as she passed the closed door of the room Arthur had occupied. She wondered why he never tried to find her. It was unkind of him to break the old friendship so coldly. It was not her fault she could not love him, she thought. She could never, never do that! In fact, she did not believe she would ever love any man.

"Some people are not made for marriage, and I think I'm one of them." And Beth sighed faintly and fell asleep.



CHAPTER X.

DEATH.

Christmas eve, and Beth was home for her two weeks' holidays. It was just after tea, and she and her father thought the parlor decidedly cosy, with the curtains drawn and the candles flaming among the holly over the mantel-piece. It seemed all the cosier because of the storm that raged without. The sleet was beating against the pane, and the wind came howling across the fields. Beth parted the curtains once, and peeped out at the snow-wreaths whirling and circling round.

"Dear! such a storm! I am glad you're not out to-night, daddy."

Beth came back to the fire-side, and passed her father a plate of fruit-cake she had made herself.

"It's too fresh to be good, but you mustn't find any fault. Just eat every bit of it down. Oh, Kitty, stop!"

They had been cracking walnuts on the hearth-rug, and Beth's pet kitten was amusing itself by scattering the shells over the carpet.

Beth sat down on the footstool at her father's feet.

"You look well after your fall's work, Beth; hard study doesn't seem to hurt you."

"I believe it agrees with me, father."

"Did you see much of Arthur while you were in Toronto, Beth? I was hoping you would bring him home for the Christmas holidays."

"No, I never saw him once."

"Never saw him once!"

He looked at her a little sternly.

"Beth, what is the matter between you and Arthur?"

Ding! The old door-bell sounded. Beth drooped her head, but the bell had attracted her father's attention, and Aunt Prudence thrust her head into the parlor in her unceremonious way.

"Doctor, that Brown fellow, by the mill, is wuss, an' his wife's took down, too. They think he's dyin'."

"Oh, daddy, I can't let you go out into this dreadful storm. Let me go with you."

"Nonsense, child! I must go. It's a matter of life and death, perhaps. Help me on with my coat, daughter, please, I've been out in worse storms than this."

Beth thought her father looked so brave and noble in that big otter overcoat, and his long white beard flowing down. She opened the door for him, and the hall light shone out into the snow. She shuddered as she saw him staggering in the wind and sleet, then went back into the parlor. It seemed lonely there, and she went on to the kitchen, where Aunt Prudence was elbow-deep in pastry. A kitchen is always a cheerful place at Christmas time. Beth's fears seemed quieted, and she went back to the parlor to fix another branch of holly about a picture. Ding! Was any one else sick, she wondered, as she went to answer the bell. She opened the door, and there stood Mrs. Perth! It was really she, looking so frail and fair in her furs.

"Why, May, dear! What are you doing out in this storm?"

"Oh, I'm nearly half dead, Beth." She tried to laugh, but the attempt was not exactly a success.

Beth took her in to the fire, removed her wraps, all matted with snow, and called to Aunt Prudence for some hot tea.

"Is your father out to-night, Beth?" asked May.

"Yes, he went away out to the Browns'. But wherever have you been?"

"I've been taking some Christmas things to a poor family about two miles out in the country, and I didn't think the storm so very bad when I started; but I'm like the Irishman with his children, I've 'more'n I want'—of sleet, at any rate. Walter is away to-night, you know."

"Mr. Perth away! Where?"

"Oh, he went to Simcoe. He has two weddings. They are friends of ours, and we didn't like to refuse. But it's mean, though," she continued, with a sweet, affected little pout; "he'll not get back till afternoon, and it's Christmas, too."

"Oh, May dear, you'll just stay right here with us to-night, and for dinner to-morrow. Isn't that just fine!" Beth was dancing around her in child-like glee. Mrs. Perth accepted, smiling at her pleasure; and they sat on the couch, chatting.

"Did you say Dr. Woodburn had gone to the Browns'."

"Yes, Mrs. Brown is sick, too."

"Oh, isn't it dreadful? They're so poor, too. I don't believe they've a decent bed in the house."

"Eight! There, the clock just struck. Father ought to be back. It was only a little after six when he went out."

She looked anxiously at the drawn curtains, but the sleet beating harder and harder upon the pane was her only answer.

"There he is now!" she cried, as a step entered the hall, and she rushed to meet him.

"Oh, daddy, dear—why, father!"

Her voice changed to wonder and fear. His overcoat was gone and he seemed a mass of ice and snow. His beard was frozen together; his breath came with a thick, husky, sound, and he looked so pale and exhausted. She led him to the fire, and began removing his icy garments. She was too frightened to be of much use, but May's thoughtful self was flitting quietly around, preparing a hot drink and seeing that the bed was ready. He could not speak for a few minutes, and then it was only brokenly.

"Poor creatures! She had nothing over her but a thin quilt, and the snow blowing through the cracks; and I just took off my coat—and put it over her. I thought I could stand it."

Beth understood it now. He had driven home, all that long way, facing the storm, after taking off his warm fur overcoat, and he was just recovering from a severe cough, too. She trembled for its effect upon him. It went to her heart to hear his husky breathing as he sat there trembling before the fire. They got him to bed soon, and Aunt Prudence tramped through the storm for Dr. Mackay, the young doctor who had started up on the other side of the town. He came at once, and looked grave after he had made a careful examination. There had been some trouble with the heart setting in, and the excitement of his adventure in the storm had aggravated it. Beth remembered his having trouble of that sort once before, and she thought she read danger in Dr. Mackay's face.

That was a long, strange night to Beth as she sat there alone by her father's bedside. He did not sleep, his breathing seemed so difficult. She had never seen him look like that before—so weak and helpless, his silvery hair falling back from his brow, his cheeks flushed, but not with health. He said nothing, but he looked at her with a pitying look sometimes. What did it all mean? Where would it end? She gave him his medicine from hour to hour. The sleet beat on the window and the heavy ticking of the clock in the intervals of the storm sounded like approaching footsteps. The wind roared, and the old shutter creaked uneasily. The husky breathing continued by her side and the hours grew longer. Oh, for the morning! What would the morrow bring? She had promised May to awaken her at three o'clock, but she looked so serene sleeping with a smile on her lips, that Beth only kissed her softly and went back to her place. Her father had fallen asleep, and it was an hour later that she heard a gentle step beside her, and May looked at her reproachfully. She went to her room and left May to watch. There was a box on her table that her father had left before he went out that evening, and then she remembered that it was Christmas morning. Christmas morning! There was a handsome leather-bound Bible and a gold watch with a tiny diamond set in the back. She had a choked feeling as she lay down, but she was so exhausted she soon slept. It was late in the morning when she awoke, and May did not tell her of her father's fainting spell. Aunt Prudence was to sit up that night. The dear old housekeeper! How kind she was, Beth thought. She had often been amused at the quaint, old-fashioned creature. But she was a kind old soul, in spite of her occasional sharp words.

Dr. Woodburn continued about the same all the following day, saving that he slept more. The next day was Sunday, and Beth slept a little in the afternoon. When she awakened she heard Dr. Mackay going down the hall, and May came in to take her in her arms and kiss her. She sat down on the bed beside Beth, with tears in her beautiful eyes.

"Beth, your father has been such a good man. He has done so much! If God should call him home to his reward, would you—would you refuse to give him up?"

Beth laid her head on May's shoulder, sobbing.

"Oh, May—is it—death?" she asked, in a hoarse whisper.

"I fear so, dear."

Beth wept long, and May let her grief have its way for a while, then drew her nearer to her heart.

"If Jesus comes for him, will you say 'no'?"

"His will be done," she answered, when she grew calmer.

The next day lawyer Graham came and stayed with Dr. Woodburn some time, and Beth knew that all hope was past, but she wore a cheerful smile in her father's presence during the few days that followed—bright winter days, with sunshine and deep snow. The jingle of sleigh-bells and the sound of merry voices passed in the street below as she listened to the labored breathing at her side. It was the last day of the year that he raised his hand and smoothed her hair in his old-time way.

"Beth, I am going home. You have been a good daughter—my one great joy. God bless you, my child." He paused a moment. "You will have to teach, and I think you had better go back to college soon. You'll not miss me so much when you're working."

Beth pressed back her tears as she kissed him silently, and he soon fell asleep. She went to the window and looked out on it all—the clear, cold night sky with its myriads of stars, the brightly lighted windows and the snow-covered roofs of the town on the hill-slope, and the Erie, a frozen line of ice in the distant moonlight. The town seemed unusually bright with lights, for it was the gay season of the year. And, oh, if she but dared to give vent to that sob rising in her throat! She turned to the sleeper again; a little later he opened his eyes with a bright smile.

"In the everlasting arms," he whispered faintly, then pointed to a picture of Arthur on the table. Beth brought it to him. He looked at it tenderly, then gave it back to her. He tried to say something, and she bent over him to catch the words, but all was silent there; his eyes were closed, his lips set in a smile. Her head sank upon his breast. "Papa!" she cried.

No answer, not even the sound of heartbeats. There was a noiseless step at her side, and she fell back, unconscious, into May's arms. When she came to again she was in her own room, and Mr. Perth was by her side. Then the sense of her loss swept over her, and he let her grief have its way for a while.

"My child," he said at last, bending over her. How those two words soothed her! He talked to her tenderly for a little while, and she looked much calmer when May came back.

But the strain had been too much for her, and she was quite ill all the next day. She lay listening to the strange footsteps coming and going in the halls, for everyone came to take a last look at one whom all loved and honored. There was the old woman whom he had helped and encouraged, hobbling on her cane to give him a last look and blessing; there was the poor man whose children he had attended free of charge, the hand of whose dying boy he had held; there was the little ragged girl, who looked up through her tears and said, "He was good to me." Then came the saddest moment Beth had ever known, when they led her down for the last time to his side. She scarcely saw the crowded room, the flowers that were strewn everywhere.

It was all over. The last words were said, and they led her out to the carriage. The sun was low in the west that afternoon when the Perths took her to the parsonage—"home to the parsonage," as she always said after that. Aunt Prudence came to bid her good-bye before she went away to live with her married son, and Beth never realized before how much she loved the dear old creature who had watched over her from her childhood. Just once before she returned to college she went back to look at the old home, with its shutters closed and the snow-drifts on its walks. She had thought her future was to be spent there, and now where would her path be guided?

"Thou knowest, Lord," she said faintly.



CHAPTER XI.

LOVE.

In the soft flush of the following spring Beth returned to the parsonage at Briarsfield. It was so nice to see the open country again after the city streets. Mr. Perth met her at the station just as the sun was setting, and there was a curious smile on his face. He was a little silent on the way home, as if he had something on his mind; but evidently it was nothing unpleasant. The parsonage seemed hidden among the apple-blossoms, and Mrs. Perth came down the walk to meet them, looking so fair and smiling, and why—she had something white in her arms! Beth bounded forward to meet her.

"Why, May, where did you—whose baby?" asked Beth, breathless and smiling.

"Who does she look like?"

The likeness to May Perth on the little one-month-old face was unmistakable.

"You naughty puss, why didn't you tell me when you wrote?"

"Been keeping it to surprise you," said Mr. Perth. "Handsome baby, isn't it? Just like her mother!"

"What are you going to call her?"

"Beth." And May kissed her fondly as she led her in.

What a pleasant week that was! Life may be somewhat desert-like, but there is many a sweet little oasis where we can rest in the shade by the rippling water, with the flowers and the birds about us.

One afternoon Beth went out for a stroll by herself down toward the lake, and past the old Mayfair home. The family were still in Europe, and the place, she heard, was to be sold. The afternoon sunshine was beating on the closed shutters, the grass was knee-deep on the lawn and terraces, and the weeds grew tall in the flower-beds. Deserted and silent! Silent as that past she had buried in her soul. Silent as those first throbs of her child-heart that she had once fancied meant love.

That evening she and May sat by the window watching the sunset cast its glories over the lake, a great sheet of flame, softened by a wrapping of thin purplish cloud, like some lives, struggling, fiery, triumphant, but half hidden by this hazy veil of mortality.

"Are you going to write another story, Beth?"

"Yes, I thought one out last fall. I shall write it as soon as I am rested."

"What is it—a love story?"

"Yes, it's natural to me to write of love; and yet—I have never been seriously in love."

May laughed softly.

"Do you know, I am beginning to long to love truly. I want to taste the deep of life, even if it brings me pain."

It was a momentary restlessness, and she recalled these words before long.

Mr. Perth joined them just then. He was going away for a week's holiday on the following day.

"I suppose you have a supply for Sunday," said Mrs. Perth.

"Yes, I have. I think he'll be a very good one. He's a volunteer missionary."

"Where is he going?" asked Beth.

"I don't know."

"I should like to meet him," and Beth paused before she continued, in a quiet tone, "I am going to be a missionary myself."

"Beth!" exclaimed Mrs. Perth.

"I thought you were planning this," said Mr. Perth.

"Thought so? How could you tell?" asked Beth.

"I saw it working in your mind. You are easily read. Where are you going?"

"I haven't decided yet. I only just decided to go lately—one Sunday afternoon this spring. I used to hate the idea."

Perhaps it was this little talk that made her think of Arthur again that night. Why had he never sent her one line, one word of sympathy in her sorrow? He was very unkind, when her father had loved him so. Was that what love meant?

The supply did not stay at the parsonage, and Beth did not even ask his name, as she supposed it would be unfamiliar to her. The old church seemed so home-like that Sunday. The first sacred notes echoed softly down the aisles; the choir took their places; then there was a moment's solemn hush,—and Arthur! Why, that was Arthur going up into the pulpit! She could hardly repress a cry of surprise. For the moment she forgot all her coldness and indifference, and looked at him intently. He seemed changed, somehow; he was a trifle paler, but there was a delicate fineness about him she had never seen before, particularly in his eyes, a mystery of pain and sweetness, blended and ripened into a more perfect manhood. Was it because Arthur preached that sermon she thought it so grand? No, everybody seemed touched. And this was the small boy who had gone hazel-nutting with her, who had heard her geography, and, barefoot, carried her through the brook. But that was long, long ago. They had changed since then. Before she realized it, the service was over, and the people were streaming through the door-way where Arthur stood shaking hands with the acquaintances of his childhood. There was a soothed, calm expression on Beth's brow, and her eyes met Arthur's as he touched her hand. May thought she seemed a trifle subdued that day, especially toward evening. Beth had a sort of feeling that night that she would have been content to sit there at the church window for all time. There was a border of white lilies about the altar, a sprinkling of early stars in the evening sky; solemn hush and sacred music within, and the cry of some stray night-bird without. There were gems of poetry in that sermon, too; little gleanings from nature here and there. Then she remembered how she had once said Arthur had not an artist-soul. Was she mistaken? Was he one of those men who bury their sentiments under the practical duties of every-day life? Perhaps so.

The next day she and May sat talking on the sofa by the window.

"Don't you think, May, I should make a mistake if I married a man who had no taste for literature and art?"

"Yes, I do. I believe in the old German proverb, 'Let like and like mate together.'"

Was that a shadow crossed Beth's face?

"But, whatever you do, Beth, don't marry a man who is all moonshine. A man may be literary in his tastes and yet not be devoted to a literary life. I think the greatest genius is sometimes silent; but, even when silent, he inspires others to climb the heights that duty forbade him to climb himself."

"You've deep thoughts in your little head, May." And Beth bent over, in lover-like fashion, to kiss the little white hand, but May had dropped into one of her light-hearted, baby moods, and playfully withdrew it.

"Don't go mooning like that, kissing my dirty little hands! One would think you had been falling in love."

Beth went for another stroll that evening. She walked past the dear old house on the hill-top. The shutters were no longer closed; last summer's flowers were blooming again by the pathway; strange children stopped their play to look at her as she passed, and there were sounds of mirth and music within. Yes, that was the old home—home no longer now! There was her own old window, the white roses drooping about it in the early dew.

"Oh, papa! papa! look down on your little Beth!" These words were in her eyes as she lifted them to the evening sky, her tears falling silently. She was following the old path by the road-side, where she used to go for the milk every evening, when a firm step startled her.

"Arthur! Good evening. I'm so glad to see you again!"

She looked beautiful for a moment, with the tears hanging from her lashes, and the smile on her face.

"I called to see you at the parsonage, but you were just going up the street, so I thought I might be pardoned for coming too."

They were silent for a few moments. It was so like old times to be walking there together. The early stars shone faintly; but the clouds were still pink in the west; not a leaf stirred, not a breath; no sound save a night-bird calling to its mate in the pine-wood yonder, and the bleat of lambs in the distance. Presently Arthur broke the silence with sweet, tender words of sorrow for her loss.

"I should have written to you if I had known, but I was sick in the hospital, and I didn't—"

"Sick in the hospital! Why, Arthur, have you been ill? What was the matter?"

"A light typhoid fever. I went to the Wesleyan College, at Montreal, after that, so I didn't even know you had come back to college."

"To the Wesleyan? I thought you were so attached to Victoria! Whatever made you leave it, Arthur?"

He flushed slightly, and evaded her question.

"Do you know, it was so funny, Arthur, you roomed in the very house where I boarded last fall, and I never knew a thing about it till afterward? Wasn't it odd we didn't meet?"

Again he made some evasive reply, and she had an odd sensation, as of something cold passing between them. He suddenly became formal, and they turned back again at the bridge where they used to sit fishing, and where Beth never caught anything (just like a girl); they always went to Arthur's hook. The two forgot their coldness as they walked back, and Beth was disappointed that Arthur had an engagement and could not come in. They lingered a moment at the gate as he bade her good-night. A delicate thrill, a something sweet and new and strange, possessed her as he pressed her hand! Their eyes met for a moment.

"Good-bye for to-night, Beth."

May was singing a soft lullaby as she came up the walk. Only a moment! Yet what a revelation a moment may bring to these hearts of ours! A look, a touch, and something live is throbbing within! We cannot speak it. We dare not name it. For, oh, hush, 'tis a sacred hour in a woman's life.

Beth went straight to her room, and sat by the open window in the star-light. Some boys were singing an old Scotch ballad as they passed in the street below; the moon was rising silvery above the blue Erie; the white petals of apple-blossoms floated downward in the night air, and in it all she saw but one face—a face with great, dark, tender eyes, that soothed her with their silence. Soothed? Ah, yes! She felt like a babe to-night, cradled in the arms of something, she knew not what—something holy, eternal and calm. And this was love. She had craved it often—wondered how it would come to her—and it was just Arthur, after all, her childhood's friend, Arthur—but yet how changed! He was not the same. She felt it dimly. The Arthur of her girlhood was gone. They were man and woman now. She had not known this Arthur as he was now. A veil seemed to have been suddenly drawn from his face, and she saw in him—her ideal. There were tears in her eyes as she gazed heavenward. She had thought to journey to heathen lands alone, single-handed to fight the battle, and now—"Arthur—Arthur!" she called in a soft, sweet whisper as she drooped her smiling face. What mattered all her blind shilly-shally fancies about his nature not being poetic? There was more poetry buried in that heart of his than she had ever dreamed. "I can never, never marry Arthur!" she had often told herself. She laughed now as she thought of it, and it was late before she slept, for she seemed to see those eyes looking at her in the darkness—so familiar, yet so new and changed! She awoke for a moment in the grey light just before dawn, and she could see him still; her hand yet thrilled from his touch. She heard the hoarse whistle of a steamer on the lake; the rooks were cawing in the elm-tree over the roof, and she fell asleep again.

"Good-morning, Rip Van Winkle," said May, when she entered the breakfast-room.

"Why, is that clock—just look at the time! I forgot to wind my watch last night, and I hadn't the faintest idea what time it was when I got up this morning!"

"Good-bye for to-night, Beth," he had said, and he was going away to-morrow morning, so he would surely come to-day. No wonder she went about with an absent smile on her face, and did everything in the craziest possible way. It was so precious, this newly-found secret of hers! She knew her own heart now. There was no possibility of her misunderstanding herself in the future. The afternoon was wearing away, and she sat waiting and listening. Ding! No, that was only a beggar-woman at the door. Ding, again! Yes, that was Arthur! Then she grew frightened. How could she look into his eyes? He would read her secret there. He sat down before her, and a formal coldness seemed to paralyze them both.

"I have come to bid you good-bye, Miss Woodburn!"

Miss Woodburn! He had never called her that before. How cold his voice sounded in her ears!

"Are you going back to Victoria College?" she asked.

"No, to the Wesleyan. Are you going to spend your summer in Briarsfield?"

"Most of it. I am going back to Toronto for a week or two before 'Varsity opens. My friend Miss de Vere is staying with some friends there. She is ill and—"

"Do you still call her your friend?" he interrupted, with a sarcastic smile.

"Why, yes!" she answered wonderingly, never dreaming that he had witnessed that same scene in the Mayfair home.

"You are faithful, Beth," he said, looking graver. Then he talked steadily of things in which neither of them had any interest. How cold and unnatural it all was! Beth longed to give way to tears. In a few minutes he rose to go. He was going! Arthur was going! She dared not look into his face as he touched her hand coldly.

"Good-bye, Miss Woodburn. I wish you every success next winter."

She went back to the parlor and watched him—under the apple trees, white with blossom, through the gate, past the old church, around the corner—he was gone! The clock ticked away in the long, silent parlor; the sunshine slept on the grass outside; the butterflies were flitting from flower to flower, and laughing voices passed in the street, but her heart was strangely still. A numb, voiceless pain! What did it mean? Had Arthur changed? Once he had loved her. "God have pity!" her white lips murmured. And yet that look, that touch last night—what did it mean? What folly after all! A touch, a smile, and she had woven her fond hopes together. Foolish woman-heart, building her palace on the sands for next day's tide to sweep away! Yet how happy she had been last night! A thrill, a throb, a dream of bliss; crushed now, all but the memory! The years might bury it all in silence, but she could never, never forget. She had laid her plans for life, sweet, unselfish plans for uplifting human lives. Strange lands, strange scenes, strange faces would surround her. She would toil and smile on others, "but oh, Arthur, Arthur—"

All through the long hours of that night she lay watching; she could not sleep. Arthur was still near, the same hills surrounding them both. The stars were shining and the hoarse whistle of the steamers rent the night. Perhaps they would never be so near again. Would they ever meet, she wondered. Perhaps not! Another year, and he would be gone far across the seas, and then, "Good-bye, Arthur! Good-bye! God be with you!"



CHAPTER XII.

FAREWELL.

Beth's summer at Briarsfield parsonage passed quietly and sweetly. She had seemed a little sad at first, and May, with her woman's instinct, read more of her story than she thought, but she said nothing, though she doubled her little loving attentions. The love of woman for woman is passing sweet.

But let us look at Beth as she sits in the shadow of the trees in the parsonage garden. It was late in August, and Beth was waiting for May to come out. Do you remember the first time we saw her in the shadow of the trees on the lawn at home? It is only a little over two years ago, but yet how much she has changed! You would hardly recognize the immature girl in that gentle, sweet-faced lady in her dark mourning dress. The old gloom had drifted from her brow, and in its place was sunlight, not the sunlight of one who had never known suffering, but the gentler, sweeter light of one who had triumphed over it. It was a face that would have attracted you, that would have attracted everyone, in fact, from the black-gowned college professor to the small urchin shouting in the street. To the rejoicing it said, "Let me laugh with you, for life is sweet;" to the sorrowing, "I understand, I have suffered, too. I know what you feel." Just then her sweet eyes were raised to heaven in holy thought, "Dear heavenly Father, thou knowest everything—how I loved him. Thy will be done. Oh, Jesus, my tender One, thou art so sweet! Thou dost understand my woman's heart and satisfy even its sweet longings. Resting in Thy sweet presence what matter life's sorrows!"

She did not notice the lattice gate open and a slender, fair-haired man pause just inside to watch her. It was Clarence Mayfair. There was a touching expression on his face as he looked at her. Yes, she was beautiful, he thought. It was not a dream, the face that he had carried in his soul since that Sunday night last fall. Beth Woodburn was beautiful. She was a woman now. She was only a child when they played their little drama of love there in Briarsfield. The play was past now; he loved her as a man can love but one woman. And now—a shadow crossed his face—perhaps it was too late!

"Clarence!" exclaimed Beth, as he advanced, "I'm glad to see you." And she held out her hand with an air of graceful dignity.

"You have come back to visit Briarsfield, I suppose. I was so surprised to see you," she continued.

"Yes, I am staying at Mr. Graham's."

She noticed as he talked that he looked healthier, stronger and more manly. Altogether she thought him improved.

"Your father and mother are still in England, I suppose," said she.

"Yes, they intend to stay with their relatives this winter. As for me, I shall go back to 'Varsity and finish my course."

"Oh, are you going to teach?"

"Yes; there's nothing else before me," he answered, in a discouraged tone.

She understood. She had heard of his father's losses, and, what grieved her still more, she had heard that Clarence was turning out a literary failure. He had talent, but he had not the fresh, original genius that this age of competition demands. Poor Clarence! She was sorry for him.

"You have been all summer in Briarsfield?" he asked.

"Yes, but I am going to Toronto to-morrow morning."

"Yes, I know. Miss de Vere told me she had sent for you."

"Oh, you have seen her then!"

"Yes, I saw her yesterday. Poor girl, she'll not last long. Consumption has killed all the family."

Beth wondered if he loved Marie, and she looked at him, with her gentle, sympathetic eyes. He caught her look and winced under it. She gazed away at the glimpse of lake between the village roofs for a moment.

"Beth, have you forgotten the past?" he asked, in a voice abrupt but gentle.

She started. She had never seen his face look so expressive. The tears rose to her eyes as she drooped her flushing face.

"No, I have not forgotten."

"Beth, I did not love you then; I did not know what love meant—"

"Oh, don't speak of it! It would have been a terrible mistake!"

"But, Beth, can you never forgive the past? I love you now—I have loved you since—"

"Oh, hush, Clarence! You must not speak of love!" And she buried her face in her hands and sobbed a moment, then leaned forward slightly toward him, a tender look in her eyes.

"I love another," she said, in a low gentle voice.

He shielded his eyes for a moment with his fair delicate hand. It was a hard moment for them both.

"I am so sorry, Clarence. I know what you feel. I am sorry we ever met."

He looked at her with a smile on his saddened face.

"I feared it was so; but I had rather love you in vain than to win the love of any other woman. Good-bye, Beth."

"Good-bye."

He lingered a moment as he touched her hand in farewell.

"God bless you," she said, softly.

He crossed the garden in the sunshine, and she sat watching the fleecy clouds and snatches of lake between the roofs. Poor Clarence! Did love mean to him what it meant to her? Ah, yes! she had seen the pain written on his brow. Poor Clarence! That night she craved a blessing upon him as she knelt beside her bed. Just then he was wandering about the weed-grown lawns of his father's house, which looked more desolate than ever in the light of the full moon. It was to be sold the following spring, and he sighed as he walked on toward the lake-side. Right there on that little cliff he had asked Beth Woodburn to be his wife, and but for that fickle faithlessness of his, who knew what might have been? And yet it was better so—better for her—God bless her. And the thought of her drew him heavenward that night.

The next day Beth was on her way to Toronto to see Marie. She was in a pensive mood as she sat by the car window, gazing at the farm-lands stretching far away, and the wooded hill-sides checkered by the sunlight shining through their boughs. There is always a pleasant diversion in a few hours' travel, and Beth found herself drawn from her thoughts by the antics of a negro family at the other end of the car. A portly colored woman presided over them; she had "leben chilen, four dead and gone to glory," as she explained to everyone who questioned her.

It was about two o'clock when Beth reached Toronto, and the whirr of electric cars, the rattle of cabs and the mixed noises of the city street would all have been pleasantly exciting to her young nerves but for her thoughts of Marie. She wondered at her coming to the city to spend her last days, but it was quiet on Grenville Street, where she was staying with her friends, the Bartrams. Beth was, indeed, struck by the change in her friend when she entered the room. She lay there so frail and shadow-like among her pillows, her dark cheeks sunken, though flushed; but her eyes had still their old brilliancy, and there was an indefinable gentleness about her. Beth seemed almost to feel it as she stooped to kiss her. The Bartrams were very considerate, and left them alone together as much as possible, but Marie was not in a talking mood that day. Her breath came with difficulty, and she seemed content to hold Beth's hand and smile upon her, sometimes through tears that gathered silently. Bright, sparkling Marie! They had not been wont to associate tears with her in the past. It was a pleasant room she had, suggestive of her taste—soft carpet and brightly-cushioned chairs, a tall mirror reflecting the lilies on the stand, and a glimpse of Queen's Park through the open window. The next day was Sunday, and Beth sat by Marie while the others went to church. They listened quietly to the bells peal forth their morning call together, and Beth noted with pleasure that it seemed to soothe Marie as she lay with closed eyes and a half smile on her lips.

"Beth, you have been so much to me this summer. Your letters were so sweet. You are a great, grand woman, Beth." And she stroked Beth's hair softly with her frail, wasted hand.

"Do you remember when I used to pride myself on my unbelief?" Her breath failed her for a moment. "It is past now," she continued, with a smile. "It was one Sunday; I had just read one of your letters, and I felt somehow that Jesus had touched me. I am ready now. It was hard, so hard at first, to give up life, but I have learned at last to say 'His will be done.'"

Beth could not speak for the sob she had checked in her throat.

"Beth, I may not be here another Sunday. I want to talk to you, dear. You remember the old days when that trouble came between you and—and Clarence. I was a treacherous friend to you, Beth, to ever let him speak of love to me. I was a traitor to—"

"Oh, hush! Marie, darling, don't talk so," Beth pleaded in a sobbing tone.

"I must speak of it, Beth. I was treacherous to you. But when you know what I suffered—" Her breath failed again for a moment. "I loved him, Beth," she whispered.

"Marie!" There was silence for a moment, broken only by Marie's labored breathing. "I loved him, but I knew he did not love me. It was only a fancy of his. I had charmed him for the time, but I knew when I was gone his heart would go back to you—and now, Beth, I am dying slowly, I ask but one thing more. I have sent for Clarence. Let everything be forgotten now; let me see you happy together just as it was before."

"Oh, hush, Marie! It cannot be. It can never be. You know I told you last fall that I did not love him."

"Ah, but that is your pride, Beth; all your pride! Listen to me, Beth. If I had ten years more to live, I would give them all to see you both happy and united."

Beth covered her face with her hands, as her tears flowed silently.

"Marie, I must tell you all," she said, as she bent over her. "I love another: I love Arthur!"

"Arthur Grafton!" Marie exclaimed, and her breath came in quick, short gasps, and there was a pained look about her closed eyes. Beth understood she was grieved for the disappointment of the man she loved.

"And you, Beth—are you happy? Does he—Arthur, I mean—love you?" she asked, with a smile.

"No. He loved me once, the summer before I came to college, but he is changed now. He was in Briarsfield this summer for a few days, but I saw he was changed. He was not like the same Arthur—so changed and cold." She sat with a grave look in her grey eyes as Marie lay watching her. "Only once I thought he loved me," she continued; "one night when he looked at me and touched my hand. But the next day he was cold again, and I knew then that he didn't love me any more."

Marie lay for a few moments with a very thoughtful look in her eyes, but she made no remark, and, after a while, she slept from weakness and exhaustion.

Beth went out for a few hours next morning, and found her very much weaker when she returned. Mrs. Bartram said she had tired herself writing a letter. She had a wide-awake air as if she were watching for something, and her ear seemed to catch every step on the stair-way. It was toward the close of day.

"Hark! who's that?" she asked, starting.

"Only Mrs. Bartram. Rest, dearest," said Beth.

But the brilliant eyes were fixed on the door, and a moment later Clarence entered the room. Marie still held Beth's hand, but her dark eyes were fixed on Clarence with a look never to be forgotten.

"You have come at last," she said, then fell back on her pillows exhausted, but smiling, her eyes closed.

He stood holding the frail hand she had stretched out to him, then the dark eyes opened slowly, and she gazed on him with a yearning look.

"Put your hand upon my forehead, I shall die happier," she said, softly. "Oh, Clarence, I loved you! I loved you! It can do no harm to tell you now. Kiss me just once. In a moment I shall be with my God."

Beth had glided from the room, and left her alone with the man she loved; but in a few minutes he called her and Mrs. Bartram to the bed-side. Marie was almost past speaking, but she stretched forth her arms to Beth and drew her young head down upon her breast. There was silence for a few minutes, broken only by Marie's hoarse breathing.

"Jesus, my Redeemer," her pale lips murmured faintly, then the heart-throbs beneath Beth's ear were still; the slender hand fell helpless on the counterpane; the brilliant eyes were closed; Marie was gone!

When Beth came to look at her again she lay smiling in her white, flowing garment, a single lily in her clasped hands. Poor Marie! She had loved and suffered, and now it was ended. Aye, but she had done more than suffer. She had refused the man she loved for his sake and for the sake of another. Her sacrifice had been in vain, but the love that sacrificed itself—was that vain? Ah, no! Sweet, brave Marie!

Her friends thought it a strange request of hers to be buried at Briarsfield, but it was granted. Her vast wealth—as she had died childless—went, by the provisions of her father's will, to a distant cousin, but her jewels she left to Beth. The following afternoon Mr. Perth read the funeral service, and they lowered the lovely burden in the shadow of the pines at the corner of the Briarsfield church-yard. There in that quiet village she had first seen him she loved. After all her gay social life she sought its quiet at last, and the stars of that summer night looked down on her new-made grave.

The following day Mr. Perth laid a colored envelope from a large publishing firm in Beth's lap. They had accepted her last story for a good round sum, accompanied by most flattering words of encouragement. As she read the commendatory words, she smiled at the thought of having at least one talent to use in her Master's service. Yes, Beth Woodburn of Briarsfield would be famous after all. It was no vain dream of her childhood.

Four weeks passed and Beth had finished her preparations for returning to college in the fall. In a few weeks she would be leaving May and the dear old parsonage, but she would be glad to be back at 'Varsity again. There came a day of heavy rain, and she went out on an errand of charity for May. When she returned, late in the afternoon, she heard Mr. Perth talking to someone in the study, but that was nothing unusual. The rain was just ceasing, and the sun suddenly broke through the clouds, filling all the west with glory. Beth went down into the garden to drink in the beauty. Rugged clouds stood out like hills of fire fringed with gold, and the great sea of purple and crimson overhead died away in the soft flush of the east, while the wet foliage of the trees and gardens shone like gold beneath the clouds. It was glorious! She had never seen anything like it before. Look! there were two clouds of flame parting about the sunset like a gateway into the beyond, and within all looked peaceful and golden. Somehow it made her think of Marie. Poor Marie! Why had Clarence's love for her been unreal? Why could she not have lived and they been happy together? Love and suffering! And what had love brought to her? Only pain. She thought of Arthur, too. Perhaps he was happiest of all. He seemed to have forgotten. But she—ah, she could never forget! Yet, "Even so, Father, for so it seemed good in Thy sight." And she pulled a bunch of fall flowers from the bush at her side, careless of the rain-drops that shook on her bare head as she touched the branches. She did not know that she was being observed from the study window.

"She is going to be a missionary, isn't she?" said the stranger who was talking to Mr. Perth.

"Yes; she hasn't decided her field yet, but she will make a grand one wherever she goes. She's a noble girl; I honor her."

"Yes, she is very noble," said the stranger slowly, as he looked at her. She would have recognized his voice if she had been within hearing, but she only pulled another spray of blossoms, without heeding the sound of the study door shutting and a step approaching her on the gravelled walk.

"Beth."

"Arthur! Why, I—I thought you were in Montreal!"

"So, I was. I just got there a few days ago, but I turned around and came back to-day to scold you for getting your feet wet standing there in the wet grass. I knew you didn't know how to take care of yourself." There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Didn't I always take care of you when you were little?"

"Yes, and a nice tyrant you were!" she said, laughing, when she had recovered from her surprise, "always scolding and preaching at me."

He seemed inclined to talk lightly at first, and then grew suddenly silent as they went into the drawing-room. Beth felt as though he were regarding her with a sort of protecting air. What did it mean? What had brought him here so suddenly? She was growing embarrassed at his silence, when she suddenly plunged into conversation about Montreal, the Wesleyan College, and other topics that were farthest away from her present thought and interest.

"Beth," said Arthur suddenly, interrupting the flow of her remarks in a gentle tone, "Beth, why did you not tell me last summer that you were going to be a missionary?"

She seemed startled for a moment, as he looked into her flushed face.

"Oh, I don't know. I—I meant to. I meant to tell you that afternoon you came here before you went away, but I didn't know you were going so soon, and I didn't tell you somehow. Who told you?"

"Marie de Vere told me," he said, gently. "She wrote to me just a few hours before she died; but I didn't get the letter till yesterday. She left it with Clarence, and he couldn't find me at first."

They looked at each other a moment in silence, and there was a tender smile in his eyes. Then a sudden flush crimsoned her cheek. How much did he know? Had Marie told him that she—

"Beth, why did you not tell me before that you were free—that you were not another's promised wife?" His voice was gentle, very gentle. Her face drooped, and her hand trembled as it lay on her black dress. He rose and bent over her, his hand resting on her shoulder. His touch thrilled her, soothed her, but she dare not raise her eyes.

"I—I—didn't know it mattered—that; you cared," she stammered.

"Didn't know I cared!" he exclaimed; then, in a softer tone, "Beth, did you think I had forgotten—that I could forget? I love you, Beth. Can you ever love me enough to be my wife?"

She could not speak, but in her upturned face he read her answer, and his lips touched her brow reverently. Closer, closer to his breast he drew her. Soul open to soul, heart beating against heart! The old clock ticked in the stillness, and the crimson glow of the sunset was reflected on the parlor wall. Oh, what joy was this suddenly breaking through the clouds upon them! Beth was the first to break the silence.

"Oh, Arthur, I love you so! I love you so!" she said, twining her arms passionately about his neck, as her tears fell upon his breast. It was the long pent-up cry of her loving womanhood.

"But Arthur, why were you so cold and strange that day we parted last summer?"

"I thought you were another's intended wife. I tried to hide my love from you." His voice shook slightly as he answered.

One long, lingering look into each other's eyes, and, with one thought, they knelt together beside the old couch and gave thanks to the all-loving Father who had guided their paths together.

That night Beth lay listening as the autumn wind shook the elm-tree over the roof and drifted the clouds in dark masses across the starry sky. But the winds might rage without—aye, the storms might beat down, if they would, what did it matter? Arthur was near, and the Divine presence was bending over her with its shielding love. "Oh, God, Thou art good!" She was happy—oh, so happy! And she fell asleep with a smile on her face.

The autumn passed—such a gloriously happy autumn—and Christmas eve had come. The snow lay white and cold on the fields and hills about Briarsfield, but in the old church all was warmth and light. A group of villagers were gathered inside, most of them from curiosity, and before the altar Arthur and Beth were standing side by side. Beth looked very beautiful as she stood there in her white bridal robes. The church was still, sacredly still, but for the sound of Mr. Perth's earnest voice; and in the rear of the crowd was one face, deadly pale, but calm. It was Clarence. How pure she looked, he thought. Pure as the lilies hanging in clusters above her head! Was she of the earth—clay, like these others about her? The very tone of her voice seemed to have caught a note from above. No, he had never been worthy of her! Weak, fickle, wave-tossed soul that he was! A look of humiliation crossed his face, then a look of hope. If he had never been worthy of her hand he would be worthy at least to have loved her in vain. He would be what she would have had him be. It was over; the last words were said; the music broke forth, and the little gold band gleamed on Beth's fair hand as it lay on Arthur's arm. He led her down the aisle, smiling and happy. Oh, joy! joy everlasting! joy linking earth to heaven! They rested that night in Beth's old room at the parsonage, and as the door closed behind them they knelt together—man and wife. Sacred hour!

Out beneath the stars of that still Christmas eve was one who saw the light shine from their window as he passed and blessed them. He carried a bunch of lilies in his hand as he made his way to a long white mound in the church-yard. Poor Marie! He stooped and laid them in the snow, the pure white snow—pure as the dead whose grave it covered! pure as the vows he had heard breathed that night!

* * * * *

Seven years have passed, and Beth sits leaning back in a rocker by the window, in the soft bright moonlight of Palestine. And what have the years brought to Beth? She is famous now. Her novels are among the most successful of the day. She has marked out a new line of work, and the dark-eyed Jewish characters in her stories have broadened the sympathies of her world of readers. But the years have brought her something besides literary fame and success in the mission-field. By her side is a little white cot, and a little rosy-cheeked boy lies asleep upon the pillow, one hand, thrown back over his dark curls—her little Arthur.

There is a step beside her, and her husband bends over her with a loving look.

"It is seven years to-night since we were married, Beth."

There are tears in her smiling eyes as she looks up into his face.

"And you have never regretted?" he asks.

"Oh, Arthur! How could I?" and she hides her face on his breast.

"My wife! my joy!" he whispers, as he draws her closer.

"Arthur, do you remember what a silly, silly girl I used to be when I thought you had not enough of the artist-soul to understand my nature? And here, if I hadn't had you to criticise and encourage me, I'd never have succeeded as well as I have."

He only kisses her for reply, and they look out over the flat-roofed city in the moonlight. Peace! peace! sweet peace! "Not as the world giveth, give I unto you." And the stars are shining down upon them in their love. And so, dear Beth, farewell!

The evening shadows lengthen as I write, but there is another to whom we must bid farewell. It is Clarence. Father and mother are both dead, and in one of the quiet parts of Toronto he lives, unmarried, in his comfortable rooms. The years have brought him a greater measure of success than once he had hoped. The sorrow he has so bravely hidden has perhaps enabled him to touch some chord in the human hearts of his readers. At any rate, he has a good round income now. Edith's children come often to twine their arms about his neck; but there are other children who love him, too. Down in the dark, narrow streets of the city there is many a bare, desolate home that he has cheered with warmth and comfort, many a humble fireside where the little ones listen for his step, many little hands and feet protected from the cold by his benefactions. But no matter how lowly the house, he always leaves behind some trace of his artistic nature—a picture or a bunch of flowers, something suggestive of the beautiful, the ideal. Sometimes, when the little ones playing about him lisp their childish praises, a softness fills his eyes and he thinks of one who is far away. Blessed be her footsteps! But he is not sad long. No, he is the genial, jolly bachelor, whom everybody loves, so unlike the Clarence of long ago; and so farewell, brave heart—fare thee well!

THE END