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BETH WOODBURN 
 
 I 
 
/u 
 
 E 
 
 Moh 
 
p. 
 
 /// 
 
 /^ 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 BY 
 
 MAUD PETITT. 
 
 TORONTO: 
 
 WILLIAM HRICGS, 
 
 29-33 Richmond Street West. 
 
 Montreal: C. W. COATFS. Halifax : S. F. HUESTIS. 
 
 1897. 
 
PETrrr^ M 
 
 Enterrd according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one 
 thousand eight hundred and ninety Be ven, by Wioliam Brioos, at the 
 Department of Agriculture. 
 
in the year one 
 I Bkioom, at the 
 
 Co /Rs ^otbcr 
 
 THIS MY FIRST BOOK 
 
 IS LOVINGLY 
 
 DEDICATED. 
 
 
r 
 
 f i. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 ClIAPTKK I. TAOK 
 
 Ik'tli at KiglitotMi . 9 
 
 (.'llAI'TKK II. 
 
 A Dirain <*f Life 21 
 
 ClIAI'TKK III. 
 Whillier, IVtli? [\0 
 
 Chai'TKR IV. 
 Millie 42 
 
 ClIAI'TKR V. 
 
 " For I Love You, H.'tir' 47 
 
 ClIAPTKR VI. 
 
 Varsity Ja 
 
 ClIAITER VII. 
 
 KikUvI 64 
 
 Chaptkr VIII. 
 The Ht'avenly ('aiiaaii 78 
 
 ClIAPTKR IX. 
 Varsity Again 95 
 
 (.'HAI'TKR .\. 
 Death . . ." II3 
 
 Chaptkr XI. 
 '-♦ ve 124 
 
 Chapter XII. 
 Farewell I37 
 
ri 
 
 til 
 
 Br 
 
 it 
 
 dk 
 
 hil 
 
 .sp( 
 
 tin 
 
 del 
 
 tac 
 eac 
 wa 
 
 UIK 
 
 trei 
 
BliTII WOODBURN. 
 
 CHAPTKH T. 
 
 BETH AT EIGHTEEN. 
 
 } 
 
 In the ^oo<l old county of Norfolk, close to 
 the shore of Luke Erie, lieH the pretty vilhii^e of 
 Briarstield. A villa<^e I call it, thouj^h in truth 
 it has now advanced almost to the size and 
 dij^nit}'^ of a town. Here, on the brow of the 
 hill to the north of the village (rather a retired 
 .spot, one would say, for so busy a man), at the 
 time of which my story treats, stood the resi- 
 dence of Dr. Woodburn. 
 
 It was a long, old-fashioned rougl«-cast house 
 facing the east, with great wide wintiows on 
 each side of the door and a veranda all the 
 way across the front. The big lawn was (juite 
 uneven, and broken here and there by birch 
 trees, spruces, and crazy clumps of rose-bushes. 
 
Ii.'i! 
 
 10 
 
 BETH WOODBUIIN. 
 
 I ;' 
 
 i 
 
 all in bloom. Altogether it was a sweet, home- 
 like old place. The view to the south show^ed, 
 over the village roofs on the hill-side, the blue 
 of Lake Erie outlined against the sky, while to 
 the north stretched the open, undulating country 
 so often seen in Western Ontario. 
 
 One warm June afternoon Beth, the doctor's 
 only daughter, was lounging in an attitude more 
 careless than graceful under a birch tree. She, 
 her father and Mrs. Martin, the housekeeper — 
 familiarly known as Aunt Prudence — formed 
 the whole household. Beth was a little above 
 the average height, a girlish figure, with a trifle 
 of that awkvv^ardness one sometimes meets in an 
 immature girl of eighteen; a face, not what most 
 people would call pretty, but still having a fair 
 share of beauty. Her features were, perhaps, a 
 little too strongly outlined, but the brow was 
 fair as a lily, and from it the great mass of dark 
 hair was drawn back in a pleasing way. But 
 her eyes — those earnest, grey eyes — were the 
 most impressive of all in her unusually impres- 
 sive face. They were such searching eyes, as 
 tliough she had stood on the brink scanning the 
 very Infinite, and yet with a certain baffled 
 look in them as of one who had gazed far out, 
 but failed to pierce the gloom — a beaten, longing 
 look. But a careless observer might have dwelt 
 
liKTH AT EKJHTEEX. 
 
 11 
 
 longer on the affectionate expression about her 
 lips — a half-childish, half- womanly tenderness. 
 Beth was in one of her dreamy moods that 
 afternoon. She was <^azing away towards tlie 
 north, her favorite view. She sometimes said 
 it was prettier than the lake vien. The hill on 
 which their house stood sloped abruptly down, 
 and a meadow, pink with clover, stretched far 
 away to rise again in a smaller hill skirted with 
 a bluish line of pines. There was a single cot- 
 tage on the opposite side of the meadow, with 
 white blinds and a row of sun-flowers along the 
 wall ; but Beth was not absorbed in the view, 
 and gave no heed to the book beside her. She 
 was dreaming. She had just been reading the 
 life of CJeorge Eliot, her favorite author, and the 
 book lay open at her picture. She had begun 
 to love George Eliot like a personal friend ; she 
 was her ideal, her model, for Beth had some 
 repute as a literary character in Briarsfield. 
 Not a teacher in the village school but had 
 marked her strong literary powers, and she was 
 not at all slow to believe all the hopeful compli- 
 ments paid her. From a child her stories had 
 lilled columns in the Briarsfield Echo, and now 
 she was eighteen she told herself sin? was ready 
 to reach out into the great literary worW- a 
 nestling longing to soar. Yes, she would bo 
 
12 
 
 BETH woonnrRN. 
 
 famous — Beth Woodburn, of Briarsfiold. She 
 was sure of it. She would write novels ; oh, 
 such grand novels ! She would drink from the 
 very depths of nature and human life. The 
 stars, the daisies, sunsets, rippling waters, love 
 and sorrow, and all the infinite chords that 
 vibrate in the human soul — she would weave 
 them all with warp of gold. Oh, the world 
 would see what was in her soul ! She would be 
 the bright particular star of Canadian literature : 
 and then wealth would How in, too, and she 
 would tix up the old home. Dear old " daddy " 
 should retire and have everything he wanted : 
 and Aunt Prudence, on sweeping days, wouldn't 
 mind moving " the trash," as she called her 
 manuscripts. Daddy wouldn't make her go to 
 bed at ten o'clock then ; she would write all 
 night if she choose ; she would have a little 
 room on purpose, and visitors at Briarstield 
 would pass by the old rough-cast house and 
 point it out as Beth Woodburn's home, and — 
 well, this is enough for a sample of Beth's day- 
 dreams. They v;ere very exaggerated, perhaps, 
 and a little selfish, too ; but she was not a fully- 
 developed woman yet, and the years were to bring 
 sweeter fruit. She had, undoubtedly, the soul of 
 genius, but genius takes years to unfold itself. 
 Then a soft expression crossed the face of the 
 
J{l"ni AT KKiHTEKN. 
 
 13 
 
 (Irraiiior. SIh' leaned l)}ick, licr cyos closed and 
 a li«^li( smile played about her lips. She was 
 thinkinj; ol* one who had encouraged her so 
 earnestly — a tall, slender youth, with light 
 curlv hair, hlue eves and a fair, almost 
 L^ii'lish, face — too fair and delicate for tlie 
 id«'al of most <:irls : hut Betli admired its 
 paleness and delicate features, and Clarence 
 Mfjyfair had come to he often in her thoughts. 
 She rememhered (juite well when the Mayfairs 
 had moved into the neighborhood and taken 
 ]>()ssession of the tine old manor beside the lake, 
 and she had ])ecome friends with the only 
 daughter, Edith, at school, and then with Clar- 
 ence. Clarence wrote such pretty little poems, 
 too. This had been the foundation of their 
 friendship, and, since their tastes and ambitions 
 were so nnich alike, what if — 
 
 Her eyes grew brighter, and she almost fancied 
 he was looking down into her face. Oh, those 
 eyes — hush, maiden heart, be still. She smiled 
 at the white cloud drifting westward — a little 
 Iniat-shaped cloud, with two white figures in it, 
 sailing in the sunnner blue, 'i'he breeze rutHed 
 her dark hair. There fell a louir shadow on the 
 grass beside her. 
 
 "Clarence — Mr. Mayfair ! I didn't see you 
 coming. When did you get home ? " 
 
14 
 
 liETH WOODUrUN. 
 
 I !i 
 
 1 1 
 
 ; 
 
 . 1 
 
 " Last nij^ht. I .stayed hi 'roronto till tlio 
 report of our * exams ' came out." 
 
 " I see you have been successful," she replied. 
 " Allow me to con trratu late you." 
 
 " Thank you. I hear you are comin<( to 
 'Varsity this fall, Miss Woodljiu-n. Don't you 
 think it (juite an undertaking ? I'm sure I wisli 
 you joy of the hard work." 
 
 " Why, I hope you are not wearying of your 
 course in the middle of it, Mr. May fair. It is 
 only two years till you will have your B.A." 
 
 " Two years' hard work, though ; and, to tell 
 the truth, a B.A. has lost its charms for me. I 
 long to devote my life more fully to literature. 
 That is my first ambition, you know, and I 
 seem to be wasting so much time." 
 
 " You can hardly call time spent that way 
 wasted," she answered. " You will write all the 
 better for it by and by." 
 
 Then they plunged into one of their old-time 
 literary talks of authors and books and ambi- 
 tions. Beth loved these talks. There was no 
 one else in BriarsHeM she could discuss these 
 matters with like Clarence. She was noticing 
 meanwhile how nuich paler he looked than 
 when she saw him last, but she admired him all 
 the more. There are some women who love a 
 man all the more for bein£r delicate. It jrives 
 
 III 
 
BETH AT EIGHTEEN. 
 
 15 
 
 tliein better opportunities to display their wo- 
 manly tenderness. Beth was one of these. 
 
 " By the way, I nmstn't forget my errand," 
 Clarence exclaimed after a lon^ chat. 
 
 He handed her a dainty little note, an invita- 
 tion to tea from his sister Edith. Beth accepted 
 with pleasure. She blushed as he pressed her 
 hand in farewell, and their eyes met. That look 
 and touch of his went very deep — deeper than 
 they should have gone, perhaps ; but the years 
 will tell their tale. She watched him goinj; 
 down the hill-side in the afternoon sunshine, 
 then fell uo dreaming again. What if, after all, 
 she should not alwa3^s stay alone with daddy ? 
 If someone else should come — And she began 
 to picture another study where she should not 
 have to write alone, but there should be two 
 desks by the broad windows looking out on the 
 lake, and somebody should — 
 
 " Beth ! Beth ! come and set the tea-table. 
 My hands is full with them cherries." 
 
 Beth's dream was a little ruflely broken by 
 Mrs. Martin's voice, l>ut she complacently rose 
 and went into the house. 
 
 Mrs. Martin was a small grey-haired woman, 
 very old-fashioned; a prim, goo<l old soul, a little 
 sharp-tongued, a relic of bygone days of Cana- 
 dian life. She had been Dr. Wood burn's house- 
 
in 
 
 BETH WOODRUKN. 
 
 keopcr ever since Beth could reiiieinber, and 
 tliey liad always called her "Aunt Prudence." 
 
 " What did that <i^andershanks of a Mayfair 
 want ? " asked the old lady with a funny smile, 
 as Betli was bustlin<]j about. 
 
 " Oh, just come to brin^ an invitation to tea 
 from Edith." 
 
 Dr. Wood])urn entere«l as soon as tea was 
 ready. He was th<^ ideal father one meets in 
 books, and if there was one thinj; on earth Beth 
 was proud of it was " dear <laddy." He was a 
 fine, broad-browed man, strikingly like Beth, 
 but with hair silvery long before its time. His 
 eyes were like hers, too, though Beth's face 
 had a little shadow of gloom that did not belong 
 to the doctor's genial countenance. 
 
 It was a pleasant little tea-table to which 
 they sat down. Mrs Martin always took tea 
 with them, and as she talked over Briarsfield 
 gossip to the doctor, Beth, as was her custom, 
 looki^d silently out of the window upon the 
 green sloping lawn. 
 
 " Well, Beth, dear," said Dr. Woodburn, " has 
 Mrs. Martin told you that young Arthur Graf- 
 ton is coming to spend his holidays with us ^ " 
 
 " Arthur Grafton : Why, no ! " said Beth with 
 pleased surprise. 
 
 " He is coming. He may drop in any day. 
 
BETH AT EIGHTEEN. 
 
 17 
 
 H«' graduated tliis spring, you know. He's a 
 tine vouniT man, I'm told." 
 
 "Oil! Betli ain't got time to tlnnlv altout 
 Muytlung but that slim young Mayfair, now-a- 
 days," put in Mrs. Martin. "He's been out there 
 with her most of the afternoon, and me with all 
 them cherries to tend to." 
 
 Beth saw a faint shadow cross her fatlier's 
 face, but put it aside as fancy oidy and began to 
 think of Arthur. He was an old play-fellow of 
 hers. An or[)han at an early age, he had spent 
 his childhood on his uncle's farm, just beyond 
 th<' pine wood to the north of her home. Her 
 father had always taken a deep interest in him, 
 and when the death of his uncle and aunt left 
 him alone in the world. Dr. Woodburn had taken 
 him into his home for a couple of years until he 
 had gone away to school. Arthur had written 
 once or twice, but Beth was staying with her 
 Aunt Margaret, near Welland, that summer, 
 and she had seen fit, for unexplained reasotis, 
 to stop the correspondence : so the friendship 
 had ended there. It w^as five years now since 
 she had seen her old play-fellow, and she found 
 herself wondering if he would be greatly 
 changed. 
 
 After tea Beth took out her books, as usual, 
 for an hour or two ; then, about eight o'clock, 
 
 >> 
 
18 
 
 HETH WOODHIJUN. 
 
 i 
 
 1 I 
 
 I , I 
 i 
 
 witli Ikt tin-pail on her arnj, started up the roa<l 
 for the milk. This was one of her childhoods 
 tasks that she still took pleasure in performing,'. 
 She sauntered alon^ in the sweet June twilight 
 past the fragrant clover meadow and throuj^h 
 the pine wood, with the tire-Hies dartin*,' 
 beneath the boughs. Some j^irls would have 
 been frightened, but Beth was not timid. She 
 loved the still sweet solitude of her evening,' 
 walk. The old picket gate clicked behind her 
 at the Birch Farm, and she went up the path 
 with its borders of four-o'clocks. It was 
 Arthur's old home, where he had ])asse<l his 
 childhood at his uncle's — n great cheery old 
 farm-house, with morning-glory vines clinging 
 to the windows, and sun-tlowers thrusting their 
 great yellow faces over the kitchen wall. 
 
 The door was open, but the kitchen empty, 
 and she surmised that Mrs. Birch had not 
 finished milking; so Beth sat down on the rough 
 bench beneath the crab-apple ti'ee and began to 
 dream of the olden days. There was the old chain 
 swing where Arthur used to swing her, and tho 
 cherry-trees where he tilled her apron. She was 
 seven and he was ten — but such a man in her 
 eyes, that sun-browned, dark-eyed boy. An<l 
 what a hero he was to her when she fell over 
 the bridge, and he rescued her! He used to 
 
IIKTH AT KKJIITKFA'. 
 
 19 
 
 ^'ot nnpfiy tliough soinotinios, Drjir, liow lie 
 tlirashcd Saniniie Jom*s I'or calling her a " little 
 snip." Arthur was ^ood, thouj^li, very jjjood. 
 He useil to sit in tliat very liench where she was 
 sittinir, and e.\r)lain tlie Sundav-scliool lesson to 
 her, and say such ;jood thin*^s. Her lather ha<l 
 
 told lu'r two or three years a<^o ot Arthurs 
 decision to be a missionary. He was f^oin^ 
 away off* to Palestine. *' I wonder how he can 
 do it," she thou<,dit. " He has his H.A. now, too, 
 an<l he was always so clever. He nnist be a 
 hero. I'm not ^ood like that ; I — I don't think 
 I want to be so j^()o<l. Clarence isn't as ^ood 
 as that. But Clarence n»ust be good. His 
 poetry shows it. I wonder it" Arthur will like 
 Chirence '. " 
 
 Mrs. Birch, with a pail of fresh nnlk on each 
 arm, interrupted her reverie. 
 
 Beth enjoyed her walk home that nifijht. The 
 moon had just risen, and the pale stars peeped 
 throutjh the patches of white cloud that to her 
 fancy looked like the foot-])i'intH of angels here 
 and there on the path of the infinite. As she 
 neared home a sound of music thrilled her. It 
 was only an old familiar tune, but she stopped 
 as if in a trance. The touch seemed to fill her 
 very soul. It was so brave and yet so tender. 
 The music ceased ; some sheep were bleating in 
 
20 
 
 HETH WOODBIRX. 
 
 Iljlil 
 
 the distance, the Htars were j^rowin^ brighter, 
 and .slie went on toward home. 
 
 She was surprised as slie crossed the yanl to 
 see a tall dark-haired stranger talking to hor 
 father in the parlor. She was just passing thr 
 parlor door when he canie toward her. 
 
 •' Well, Beth, my old play-mate ! " 
 
 " Arthur ! " 
 
 They would have made a subject for an artist 
 as they stood with clasped hands, the handsome 
 dark-eyed man ; the girl, in her white dress, her 
 milk-pail on her arm, and her wondering grey 
 eyes upturned to his. 
 
 " Why, Beth, you look at me as if I were a 
 spectre." 
 
 " But, Arthur, you're so changed ! Why, 
 you're a man, now ! " at which he laughed a 
 merry laugh that echoed clear to the kitchen. 
 
 Beth joined her father and Arthur in the 
 parlor, and they talked the old days over again 
 before they retired to rest. Beth took out her 
 pale blue dress again before she went to sleep. 
 Yes, she would wear that to the Mayfair's next 
 day, and there were white moss roses at the 
 dining-room window that would just match. So 
 thinking she laid it carefully away and slept her 
 girl's sleep that night. 
 
A DIIEAM OK LIFE. 
 
 21 
 
 CHAFrEU 11. 
 
 A DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 if I were a 
 
 It was late the next afternoon when Betli 
 Ht(j()<l before tlie mirror fastening the niosa roses 
 in lier belt. Arthur had gone away with her 
 father to see a friend, and would not return till 
 well on in the evening. Aunt Prudence gave her 
 the customary warning about not staying late 
 and Beth went off with a lighter heart than 
 usual. It was a delightful day. The homes 
 all looked so cheery, and the children were play- 
 ing at the gates as she went down the street. 
 There was one her eye dwelt on more than the 
 rest. The. pigeons were strutting on the slop- 
 ing roof, the cat dozed in the window-sill, and 
 the little fair-haired girls were swinging under 
 the cherry-tree. Yes, marriage and home must 
 be sweet after all. Beth had always .said she 
 never would marry. She wanted to write 
 
22 
 
 HETII WnoDIUUX. 
 
 stories ami not Imve other cares. But school 
 j^irls clia!ij:fe their views sometimes. 
 
 It was only a few minutes' walk to the May- 
 fair residence }jesi<le the lake. Beth was familiar 
 with the ])lace and scarcidy noticed thcj^reatold 
 lawn, the trees almost concealin<^ the house : 
 that pretty fountain yonder, the tennis grouml 
 to the south, and the j^reat hlue Erie stretcliin^^- 
 far away. 
 
 E«lith Mayfair came down the walk to meet 
 her, a li<^ht-haired, winsome creature, several 
 years older than Beth. But she looked even 
 younger. Hers was such a child-like face ! It 
 was j)retty to see the way she twined her arm 
 about Beth. 'I'hey had loved each other ever 
 since the JMayfairs liad come to Briarsfield three 
 years a^o. Mr. and Mrs. Mayfair were sitting 
 on the veraiuhi. Beth had always loved Mrs. 
 Mayfair ; she was such a bright girlish woman, 
 in spite of her di^ifnity and soft grey hair. Mr. 
 Mayfair, too, had a calm, pleasing manner. To 
 Beth's literary mind there was something about 
 the Mayfair home that reminded her of a novel. 
 They were wealthy people, at least supposed to 
 be so, who had settled in Briarsfield to live their 
 lives in rural contentment. 
 
 It was a pretty room of Edith's that she took 
 Beth into — a pleasing confusion of curtains, 
 
A DHKAM <»F LIFE. 
 
 23 
 
 hooks, inu.sic. ami Howcih, witli a j^iiitiir lyiiifj^ 
 on tlii' coacli. TImtc whs h plioto on tlu' little 
 tuKle tliat caught Hctli's attention. It was Mr. 
 Aslilcy, the classical master in Briarsfi«'l(l \\'\rr]i 
 School, for HriarsHeM coiiM boast a Hij^h School. 
 11«' and Edith had become very friendly, and 
 villa^^e f^'ossip was already linkin<^ their names. 
 P.t'th looked uj) and saw Kdith watchinjjf lier 
 with a smilinj^, blushin<( face. The next minute 
 she throw l)oth arms about Beth. 
 
 " Can't you guess what I was jjjoin<j to tell 
 you, Beth, dear ?" 
 
 " Why, Edith, are you and Mr. Ashley — " 
 
 " Yes, dear. I thouj^ht you would jruess." 
 
 Beth only hug<;ed her by way of congratula- 
 tion, and Edith laughed a little hysterically. 
 Beth was used to these emotional fits of Edith's. 
 Then she began to (juestion — 
 
 " When is it to be (*" 
 
 " September. And you will be my brides- 
 maid, won't you, dear ? " 
 
 Beth promised. 
 
 " Oh, Beth, I think marriage is tlie grandest 
 institution God ever made." 
 
 Beth had a strange dream-like look in her 
 eyes, and the tea-bell broke their reverie. 
 
 Mr. Ashley had dropped in for tea, and 
 Clarence sat beside Beth, with Edith and her 
 
 
24 
 
 BETH WOODBURX. 
 
 betrothed opposite. It was so pleasant and 
 home-like, with the pink cluster of roses smilint^ 
 in at the window. 
 
 After tea, Edith and Mr. Ashley seemed pre- 
 pared for a tete-d-tete, in which Mrs. Mayfair 
 was also interested ; and Clarence took Beth 
 around to the conservatory to see a night- 
 blooming cirius. It was not out yet, and so 
 they went for a promenade through the long 
 grounds toward the lake. Beth never forgot 
 that walk in all her life to come. Somehow 
 she did not seem herself. All her ambition and 
 struggle seemed at rest. She was a child, a 
 careless child, and the flowers bloomed around 
 her, and Clarence was at her side. The lake 
 was very calm when they reached it ; the stars 
 were shining faintly, and they could see Long 
 Point Island like a long dark line in the distant 
 water. 
 
 " Arthur is going to take me over to the 
 island this week," said Beth. 
 
 They had just reached a little cliff jutting out 
 over the water. It was, perhaps, one of the 
 most picturesque scenes on the shores of Lake 
 Erie. 
 
 " Wouldn't it be grand to be on this cliff and 
 watch a thunderstorm coming up over the 
 lake ^" said Beth. 
 
A DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 25 
 
 " You are very daring Beth — Miss Woodlnirn. 
 Edith would rather hide her head under the 
 blankets." 
 
 •' Do you know, I really love thunderstorms," 
 continued Beth. " It is such a nice safe feeling 
 to lie (juiet and sheltered in bed and hear the 
 thunder crash and the storm beat outside. 
 Somehow, I always feel more deeply that (Jod 
 is great and powerful, and that the world has 
 a live ruler." She stopped rather suddenly. 
 Clarence never touched on religious subjects in 
 conversation — 
 
 " Dear, what a ducking Arthur and I got in 
 a thunderstorm one time. We were out hazel- 
 nutting and — " 
 
 "Do you always call Mr. Grafton Arthur r' 
 interrupted Clarence, a little impatiently. 
 
 " Oh, yes ! Why, how funny it would seem 
 to call Arthur Mr. Grafton ! " 
 
 " Beth " — he grew paler and his voice al- 
 most trembled, — "Bet!i, do you love Arthur 
 Grafton?" 
 
 " Love Arthur ! Why, dear, no I I never 
 thought of it. He's just like my Inother. 
 Besides," she continued after a pause, " Arthur 
 is going away off somewhere to be a missionary, 
 and I don't think I could be happy if I married 
 a man who wasn't a writer." 
 
20 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 r *.■ 
 
 That was very naive of Beth. She forgot 
 Clarence's literary pretensions. 
 
 " Then can you love me, Beth ? Don't you 
 see that I love you ?" 
 
 There was a moment's silence. Their eyes 
 met in a long, earnest look. An impulse of 
 tenderness came over her, and she threw both 
 arms about his neck as he clasped her to his 
 breast. The stars were shining above and the 
 water breaking at their feet. They understood 
 each other without words. 
 
 " Oh, Clarence, I am so happy, so very 
 happy!" 
 
 The night air wafted the fragrance of roses 
 about them like incense. They walked on along 
 the shore, happy lovers, weaving their life- 
 dreams under the soft sky of that summer 
 night. 
 
 " I wonder if anyone else is as happy as we 
 are, Beth ! " 
 
 " Oh, Clarence, how good we ought to be ! I 
 mean to always be kinder and to try and make 
 other people happy, too." 
 
 " You are good, Beth. May God bless our 
 lives." 
 
 She had never seen Clarence ao earnest and 
 manly before. Yes, she was very much in love, 
 she told herself. 
 
A DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 27 
 
 They talked much on the way back to the 
 liouse. He told her that his father was not so 
 wealthy as many people supposed ; that it would 
 be several years before he himself could marry. 
 But Beth's brow was not clouded. She wanted 
 her college course, and somehow Clarence seemed 
 so nmch more manly with a few difficulties to 
 face. 
 
 A faint sound of music greeted them as they 
 reached the house. Edith was playing her 
 guitar. Mrs. Mayfair met them on the 
 veranda. 
 
 " Why, Clarence, how late you've kept the 
 child out," said Mrs. Mayfair with a motherly 
 air. "I'm afraid you will catch cold. Miss 
 Woodburn ; there is such a heavy dew ! " 
 
 Clarence went up to his mother and said 
 something in a low tone. A pleased look 
 lighted her face. 
 
 " I am so glad, dear Beth, my daughter. I 
 shall have another daughter in place of the one 
 I am giving away." 
 
 She drew the girl to her breast with tender 
 affection. Beth had been motherless all her life, 
 and the caress was sweet and soothing to her. 
 Edith fastened her cape and kissed her fondly 
 when she was going home. Clarence went with 
 her, and somehow everything was so dream-like 
 
28 
 
 BETH WOODHUUN. 
 
 and unreal that even the old rough-cast home 
 looked strange and shadowy in the moon-light. 
 It was perhaps a relief that her father had not 
 yet returned. 
 
 She was smiling and happy, but even her own 
 little room seemed strangely unnatural that 
 night. She stopped just inside the door and 
 looked at it, the moonlight streaming through 
 the open window upon her bed. Was she really 
 the same Beth Woodburn that had rested there 
 last night and thought about the roses. She 
 took them out of her belt now. A sweetly 
 solemn feeling stole over her, and she crossed 
 over and knelt at the window, the withered 
 loses in her hand, her face upturned to heaven. 
 Sacred thoughts tilled her mind. She had 
 longed for love, someone to love, someone who 
 loved her ; but was she worthy, she asked her- 
 self, pure enough, good enough ? She felt to- 
 night that she was kneeling at an unseen shrine, 
 a bride, to be decked by the holy angels in robes 
 whiter than mortal ever saw. 
 
 Waves of sweet music aroused her. She 
 started up as from a dream, recognizing at once 
 the touch of the same hand that she had heard 
 in the distance the night before, and it was 
 coming from their own parlor window, right 
 beneath hers ! She held her breath almost as 
 
A DREAM OF LIFE. 
 
 29 
 
 slie stole out and leaned over the balustrade to 
 peer into the parlor. Why, it was Arthur! 
 Was it possible he could play like that ? She 
 made a strikin^r picture as she stood there on 
 the stairs, her crreat ^rrey eyes drinkin^r in the 
 music : but she was relieved somehow when it 
 ceased. It was brioht, quick, inspirinrr; but it 
 seemed to make her forget her new-born joy 
 while it lasted. 
 
30 
 
 BETH WOODBUllN. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ■!l ! ' 
 
 IK' 
 
 )\ 
 
 H 
 
 P 
 
 a! 
 
 WHITHER, BETH? 
 
 Beth was lyingj in the liammock, watching 
 the white clouds chase each other over the sky. 
 Her face was quite unclouded, though the 
 morning had not passed just as she had hoped. 
 It was the next afternoon after she had taken 
 tea at the Mayfair's, and Clarence had come to 
 see her father that morning. They had had a 
 long talk in the study, and Beth had sat in her 
 room anxiously pulling to pieces the roses that 
 grew at her window. After a little while she 
 was called down. Clarence was gone, and she 
 thought her father did not look quite satisfied, 
 though he smiled as she sat down beside him. 
 
 " Beth, I am sorry you are engaged so young," 
 he said gently. " Are you sure you love him, 
 Beth ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, papa, dear. You don't understand,'' 
 
WHITHER, BETH 
 
 31 
 
 and she put both arms about his neck. " I am 
 in love, truly. Believe me, I shall bo happy." 
 
 " Clarence is delicate, too," said her father 
 with a grave look. 
 
 Tliey were both silent for a few minutes. 
 
 " But, after all, he cannot marry for three or 
 four years to come, and you must take your 
 collefTo course, Beth.' 
 
 They were silent again for a moment. 
 
 " Well, God bless you, Beth, my darling 
 child." There were tears in his eyes, and his 
 voice was very gentle. He kissed her and went 
 out to his office. 
 
 What a dear old father he was ! Only Beth 
 wished he had looked more hopeful and enthu- 
 siastic over the change in her life. Aunt Pru- 
 dence had been told before dinner, and she had 
 taken it in a provokingly (piiet fashion that 
 perplexed Beth. W^hat was the matter with 
 them all ? Did they think Clarence the pale- 
 faced boy that he looked ^ They were quite 
 mistaken. Clarence was a man. 
 
 So Miss Beth reasoned, and the cloud passed 
 off her brow, for, after all, matters were a))out 
 as they were before. The morning had been 
 rather pleasant, too. Arthur had played some 
 of his sweet old pieces, and then asked as a 
 return favor to see some of her writing. She 
 
32 
 
 BETH WOODBURX. 
 
 had <,Mvon liim several copies of the Briarsfiekl 
 Echo, and lie was still reading. In spite of her 
 thoughts of Clarence, she wondered now an«l 
 again what Arthur would think of her. Would 
 he be proud of his old play -mate i He came 
 across the lawn at last and drew one of the 
 chairs up beside the hammock. 
 
 " I have read them all, Beth, and I suppose I 
 should be proud of you. You are talented — 
 indeed, you are more than talented ; you are a 
 genius, I believe. But do you know, Beth, I do 
 not like your writings ( " 
 
 He looked at her as if it pained him to utter 
 these words. 
 
 " They are too gloomy. There is a senti- 
 mental gloom about everything you write. I 
 don't know what the years since we parted have 
 brought you, Beth, but your writings don't 
 seem to come from a full heart, overflowing with 
 happiness. It seems to me that with your com- 
 mand of language and flowing style you might 
 bring before your reader such sweet little homes 
 and bright faces and sunn}?^ hearts, and that is 
 the sv/eetest mission a writer has, I believe." 
 
 Beth watched him silently. She had not 
 expected this from Arthur. She thought he 
 would overwhelm her with praise ; and, instead, 
 he sat there like a judge laying all her faults 
 
WHITHEK, BETH ? 
 
 33 
 
 before her. Stern critic ! Somehow he didn't 
 spom just like the old Arthur. 
 
 " I don't like him any more," she thought. 
 " H(« isn't like his old self." 
 
 But somehow she could not help respecting 
 liiiii as she looked at him sittinir there with that 
 LTrt^at wave of dark hair brushed back from his 
 brow, and liis soulful eyes fixed on something 
 in space. He looked a little sad, too. 
 
 " Still, he isn't a writer like Clarence," she 
 thought, "and he doesn't know how to praise 
 like Clarence does." 
 
 " But Arthur," she said, finally speaking her 
 thoughts aloud ; " you speak as though I could 
 cbange my way of writing merely by resolving 
 to. I can write only as nature allows." 
 
 " That's too sentimental, Beth ; just like your 
 writing. You are a little bit visionary." 
 
 " But there are gloomy and visionary writers 
 as well as cheerful ones. Both have their 
 , ace. 
 
 " I do not believe, Beth, that gloom has a place 
 in this bright earth of ours. Sadness and sorrow 
 will come, but there is sweetness in the cup as 
 well. The clouds drift by w^th the hours, Beth, 
 but the blue sky stands firm throughout all 
 tune. 
 
 She caught sight of Clarence coming as he 
 3 
 
34 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 r f 
 
 1^11! 
 
 was vspeaking, and scarcely heeded his last words, 
 but nevertheless they fastened themselves in her 
 mind, and in after years she recalled them. 
 
 Clarence and Arthur had never met before 
 face to face, and somehow there was something 
 striking about the two as they did so. Arthur 
 was only a few years older, but he looked so 
 manly and mature beside Clarence. They 
 smiled kindly when Beth introduced them, and 
 she felt sure that they approved of each other. 
 Arthur withdrew soon, and Beth wondered if he 
 had any suspicion of the truth. 
 
 Once alone with her, Clarence drew her to his 
 heart in true lover-like fashion. 
 
 " Oh, Clarence, don't ! People will see you." 
 
 " Suppose they do. You are mine." 
 
 " But you musn't tell it, Clarence. You won't, 
 will you ? " 
 
 He yielded to her in a pleasant teasing 
 fashion. 
 
 " Have you had a talk with your father, 
 Beth ? " 
 
 " Yes," she answered seriously, " and I rather 
 hoped he would take it differently." 
 
 •' I had hoped so, too ; but, still, he doesn't 
 oppose us, and he will become more reconciled 
 after a while, you know, when he sees what it is 
 to have a son. Of course, he thinks us very 
 
WHITHER, BETH ? 
 
 35 
 
 young ; but still I think we are more mature 
 than many young people of our age." 
 
 Beth's face looked changed in the last twenty- 
 four hours. She had a more satisfied, womanly 
 look. Perhaps that love-craving heart of hers 
 had been too empty. 
 
 " I have been looking at the upstair rooms at 
 home,'' said Clarence. " There will have to be 
 some alterations before our marriage." 
 
 *' Why, Clarence ! " she exclaimed, laughing ; 
 " you talk as though we were going off to 
 Gretna Green to be married next week." 
 
 " Sure enough, the time is a long way off, but 
 it's well to be looking ahead. There are two 
 nice sunny rooms on the south side. One of 
 them would be so nice for study and writing. 
 It has a window looking south toward the lake, 
 and another w^est. You were always fond of 
 watching the sun set, Beth. But you must 
 come and look at them. Let's see, to-day's 
 Saturday. Come early next week ; I shall be 
 away over Sunday, you know," 
 
 " Yes, you told me so last night." 
 
 " Did I tell you of our expected guest ? " he 
 asked, after a pause. " Miss Marie de Vere, the 
 daughter of an old friend of my mother's. Her 
 father was a Frenchman, an aristocrat, quite 
 wealthy, and Marie is the only child, an orphan. 
 
 
86 
 
 BETH WOODBURX. 
 
 My mother has asked her here for a few 
 weeks." 
 
 " isn't it a strikinff name ? " said Beth," Marie 
 de Vere ; pretty, too. I wonder what she will 
 l)e like." 
 
 " I hope you will like her, Beth. She makes 
 her home in Toronto, and it wouhl be nice if you 
 became friends. You will be a stranger in 
 Toronto, you know, next winter. How nice it 
 will be to have you there while I am there, 
 Beth. I can see you (juite often then. Only I 
 hate to have you study so hanl." 
 
 " Oh, but then it won't hurt my brain, you 
 know^ Thoughts of you will interrupt my 
 studies so often ! " she said, with a coquettish 
 smile. 
 
 Clarence told her some amusing anecdotes of 
 'Varsity life, then went away early, as he was 
 going to leave the village for a day or two. 
 
 Beth hurried off to the kitchen to help Aunt 
 Prudence. It was unusual for her to give any 
 attention to housework, but a new interest in 
 domestic affairs seemed to have aroused within 
 her to-day. 
 
 The next day was Sunday, and somehow it 
 seemed unusually sacred to Beth. The Wood- 
 burn household was at church quite early, and 
 Beth sat gazing out of the window at the 
 
WHITHER, HETH ? 
 
 37 
 
 |)!irHoim<(e acroHs tl>e r()a<l. It was so lioinclikc 
 — a j^rcat H<|iian' old brick, witli a i^roup of 
 liollyocks beside the stu<ly window. 
 
 'Die services that (hiy seemed unusually sweet, 
 particularly the Sunday-school hour. Heth's 
 attention wandered fron> the lesson once or 
 twice, and she noticed Arthur in the opposite 
 corner teaching a class of little j^irls — little tots 
 in white dresses. He looked so pleased and 
 self -forgetful. Both ha<l never seen him look 
 like that before; and the children were open- 
 eyed. She saw him again at the close of the 
 Sunday-school, a little light-haired creature in 
 his arms. 
 
 " Why, Arthur, I didn't think you were so 
 fond of children." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I'm (piite a grandfather, only minus 
 the grey hair." 
 
 It was beautiful walking home that afternoon 
 in the light June breeze. She wondered what 
 (Jlarence was doing just then. Home looked so 
 sweet and pleasant, too, as she opened the gate, 
 and she thought liow sorry she should be to 
 leave it to go to college in the fall. 
 
 Beth stayed in her room a little while, and 
 then came down stairs. Arthur was alone in 
 the parlor, sitting by the north window, and 
 Beth sat down near. The wind had ceased, the 
 
38 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 '', 
 
 i'l 
 
 sun was slowly sinking in the west, a flock of 
 sheep were resting in the shadow of the elms on 
 the distant hill-slope, and the white clouds 
 paused in the blue as if moored by unseen 
 hands. Who has not been moved by the peace 
 and beauty of the closing hours of a summer 
 Sabbath ? Arthur and Beth were slow to 
 begin conversation, for silence seemed more 
 pleasing. 
 
 " Arthur, when are you going out as a mis- 
 sionary ? " asked Beth, at last. 
 
 '• Not for three or four years yet." 
 
 " Where are you going, do you know ? " 
 
 " To the Jews, at Jerusalem." 
 
 " Are you sure you will be sent just where 
 you want to go ? " 
 
 *• Yes, for I am going to pay my own ex- 
 penses. A bachelor uncle of mine died, leaving 
 me an annuity." 
 
 " Don't you dread going, though ? " 
 
 *' Dread it ! No, I rejoice in it ! " he said, 
 with a radiant smile. " One has so many oppor- 
 tunities of doing good in a work like that." 
 
 " Do you always think of what you can do 
 for others ? " 
 
 " That is the best way to live," he answered, 
 a sweet smile in the depths of his dark eyes. 
 
 " But don't you dread the loneliness ? " 
 
 " I will never leave thee nor forsake thee." 
 
WHITHER, BETH i 
 
 39 
 
 as a mis- 
 
 " Oh, Arthur ! " — she buried her face for a 
 moment in the cushions, and then looked up at 
 him with those searching grey eyes of hers — 
 " you are brave ; you are good ; I wish I were, 
 too." 
 
 He looked down upon her tenderly for a 
 moment. 
 
 " But, Beth, isn't your life a consecrated one — 
 one of service ? " 
 
 *' It is all consecrated but one thing, and I 
 can't consecrate that." 
 
 "You will never be happy till you do. Beth, 
 I am afraid you are not perfectly happy," he 
 said, after a pause. " You do not look to be." 
 
 " Oh, yes, I am quite happy, very happy, and 
 I shall be happier still by and by," she said, 
 thinking of Clarence. " But, Arthur, there is 
 one thing I can't consecrate. I am a Christian, 
 and I do mean to be good, only I can't conse- 
 crate my literary hopes and work." 
 
 " Oh, why not, Beth ? That is the very thing 
 you should consecrate. That's the widest field 
 you have for work. But why not surrender 
 that, too, Beth ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. I couldn't write like 
 ' Pansy ' does, it isn't natural to me." 
 
 " You don't need to write like ' Pansy.' She 
 has done splendid work, though, and I don't 
 believe there is a good home where she isn't 
 
w 
 
 40 
 
 BETH WOODBUUNi 
 
 'iillil 
 
 'I: 
 
 i 'I 
 
 ■i 
 
 f 
 
 i i 
 
 loved. But it may not be your place to be just 
 like ' Pansy.' " 
 
 " No ; I want to be -i George Eliot." 
 
 A graver look crosf his face. 
 
 "That is right to a certain extent. George 
 Eliot certainly had a grand intellect, but if she 
 had only been a consecrated Christian woman 
 how infinitely greater she might have been ! 
 With such talent as hers undoubtedly was, she 
 could have touched earth with the very tints of 
 heaven. Beth, don't you see what grand possi- 
 bilities are yours, with your natural gifts and 
 the education and culture that you will have ;* " 
 
 " Ah, yes, Arthur, but then — I am drifting 
 somehow. Life is bearing me another way. 
 I feel it within me. By-and-by I hope to be 
 famous, and perhaps wealthy, too, but I am 
 drifting with the years." 
 
 " But it is not the part of noble men and 
 women to drift like that, Beth. You will be 
 leaving home this fall, and life is opening up to 
 you. Do you not see there are two paths before 
 you ? Which will you choose, Beth ? * For self i ' 
 or ' for Jesus ? ' The one will bring you fame and 
 wealth, perhaps, but though you smile among 
 the adoring crowds you will not be satisfied. 
 The other — oh, it would make you so much 
 happier ! Your books would be read at every 
 fire-si<le, and Beth Woodburn would be a name 
 
WHITHfiR, BETH ( 
 
 41 
 
 o be just ^ to be loved. You are drifting — but whitber, 
 Heth ? " 
 
 His voice was so gentle as be spoke, liis smile 
 so tender, and tbere was sometbing about bim 
 so unlike any otber man, sbe could not forget 
 tbose last words. 
 
 Tb 
 
 -bei 
 
 falli 
 
 ber pillow that 
 
 moon- beams 
 night mingled with her dreams, and she and 
 Clarence were alone together in a lovely island 
 garden. It was so very beautiful — a grand 
 temple of nature, its aisles carpeted with dewy 
 ^aass, a star-gemmed heaven for its dome, a star- 
 strewn sea all round ! No mortal artist could 
 have planned that mysteriously beautiful pro- 
 fusion of flowers— lily and violet, rose and 
 oleander, palm-tree and passion-vine, and the 
 olive branches and orange blossoms interlacing 
 in the moon-light above them. Arthur was 
 watering the tall white lilies by the water- side 
 and all was still with a hallowed silence they 
 dared not break. Suddenly a wild blast swept 
 where thev stood. All was desolate and bare, 
 and Clarence was gone. In a moment the bare 
 rocks where she had stood were overwhelmed, 
 and she was driftinj; far out to sea — alone ! 
 Stars in the sky above — stars in the deep all 
 round and the win<ls and the waters were still ! 
 And she was driftino- — but whither ? 
 

 42 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 MARIE. 
 
 " Isn't she pretty ? " 
 
 " She's picturesque looking." 
 
 " Pretty ? picturesque ? I think she's ugly ! " 
 
 These were the varied opinions of a group of 
 Briarsfield girls who were at the station when 
 the evening train stopped. The object of their 
 remarks was a slender girl whom the Mayfairs 
 received with warmth. It was Marie de Vere — 
 graceful, brown-eyed, with a small olive face 
 and daintily dressed brown hair. This was the 
 girl that Beth and Arthur were introduced to 
 when they went to the Mayfairs to tea a few 
 days later. Beth recalled the last evening she 
 was there to tea. Only a few days had since 
 passed, and yet how all was changed ! 
 
 " Do you like Miss de Vere?" asked Clarence, 
 after Beth had enjoyed a long conversation with 
 her. 
 
MARIE. 
 
 43 
 
 " Oh, yes ! I'm just delighted with her ! She 
 lias sucli kind eyes, and she seems to understand 
 one so well ! " 
 
 " You have fallen in love at first sight. The 
 pleasure on your face makes up for the long time 
 1 have waited to get you alone. Only I wish 
 you would look at me like you looked at Miss 
 de Vere just now," he said, trying to look 
 dejected. 
 
 She laughed. Those little affectionate expres- 
 sions always pleased her, for she wondered some- 
 times if Clarence would be a cold and unrespon- 
 sive husband. He was not a very ardent lover, 
 and grey-eyed, intellectual Beth Woodburn had 
 a lovediungering heart, though few people 
 knew it. 
 
 " Do you know," said Beth, " Miss de Vere 
 has told me that there is a vacant room at her 
 boarding-house. She is quite sure she can get it 
 lor me this winter. Isn't she kind ? I believe 
 we shall be grreat friends." 
 
 " Yes, you will enjoy her friendship. She is 
 a clever artist and musician, you know. Edith 
 says she lives a sort of Bohemian life in Toronto. 
 Her rooms are littered with music and painting 
 and literature." 
 
 " How nice ! Her face looks as if she had a 
 story, too. There's something sad in her eyes." 
 
44 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 {■ 
 
 " She struck me as being remarkably lively," 
 said Clarence. 
 
 " Oh, yes, but there are lively people who 
 have secret sorrows. Look, there she is walk- 
 ing with Arthur toward the lake." 
 
 Clarence smiled for a moment. 
 
 " Perhaps fate may see fit to link them 
 toifether," he said. 
 
 Oh, no, I don't think so ! I can't imagine 
 
 ( • 
 
 IL. 
 
 "Gi.'/rn's a fine fellow, isn't he ? " 
 
 '^'r.' }, 'i vou like him so well, Clarence. 
 He's just like my brother, you know. We had 
 such an earnest talk Sunday night. He made 
 me feel, oh, I don't know how. But do you 
 know, my life isn't consecrated to God, Clar- 
 ence ; is yours ? " 
 
 They were walking under the stars of the 
 open night, and Clarence looked thoughtful for 
 a moment, then answered unhesitatingly : 
 
 " No, Beth. I settled that long ago. I don't 
 think we need to be consecrated. So long as 
 we are Christians and live fairly consistent 
 lives, I think that suffices. Of course, with 
 people like Arthur Grafton it is different. But 
 as for us we are consecrated to art, you know, 
 in the shape of writing. Let us make the 
 utmost of our talents." 
 
MARIE. 
 
 45 
 
 '• Yes, we are consecrated to art," said Beth 
 with a sigh of relief, and began talking of 
 Marie. 
 
 Since Beth was to leave home in the fall, she 
 did not go away during the summer, and conse- 
 quently saw much of Marie during the few 
 weeks she stayed at BriarsHeld. It is strange 
 how every life we come in contact with leaves 
 its impress upon ourselves ! It was certainly so 
 with Marie and Beth. Marie had seen so much 
 of the world and of human life, and Beth had 
 always lived so quietly there in her own vil- 
 lage, that now a restlessness took possession of 
 her to get away far beyond the horizon of 
 Briarsfield. 
 
 The days passed on as days will pass. Clar- 
 ence was home most of the time, and he and 
 Beth had many walks together in the twilight, 
 and sometimes in the morning. What delight- 
 ful walks they were in the cool of the early 
 summer morning ! There was one especially 
 pretty spot where they used to rest along the 
 country road-side. It was a little hill-top, 
 with the ground sloping down on either side, 
 then rising again in great forest -crowned hills. 
 Two oak trees, side by side, shaded them as 
 they watched the little clouds sailing over the 
 harvest fields. 
 
 i I 
 
46 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 Arthur was with them a great deal of the 
 summer, and Beth was occupied with prepara- 
 tions for leaving home. She used to talk to 
 Arthur about Marie sometimes, but he dis- 
 appointed her by his coldness. She fancied 
 that he did not altogether approve of Marie. 
 
 I ■ i 
 
 M 
 
 1 1'- 
 
** FOR I LOVE YOU, BETH.' 
 
 47 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 ''FOR I LOVE YOU, BETH:' 
 
 It came soon, her last Sabbath at home, and 
 the sun was sinking in the west. Beth sat by 
 her favorite window in the parlor. Do you 
 remember that last Sabbath before you left 
 home ? Everything, the hills outside, the 
 pictures on the walls, even the very furniture, 
 looked at you in mute farewell. Beth leaned 
 back in her rocker and looked through the open 
 door into the kitchen with its maple floor, and 
 the flames leaping up in the old cook-stove 
 where the fire had been made for tea. She had 
 always liked that stove with its cheery fire. 
 Then she turned her eyes to the window and 
 noted that the early September frost had 
 browned her favorite meadow where the clover 
 bloomed last June, and that the maples along 
 the road where she went for the milk every 
 
 I ' 
 
48 
 
 BETH WOODBUHN. 
 
 evening, were now all decked in crimson and 
 yellow. 
 
 Her father was sitting at the tay)le reading, 
 but when she looked around she saw his eyes 
 were fixed upon her with a tender look. Poor 
 father ! He would nnss her, she knew, though 
 he tried not to let her see how much. Aunt 
 Prudence, too, dear old soul, seemed sorry to 
 have her go, but she had her own peculiar way 
 of expressing it, namely, by getting crossf-r 
 every day. She did not approve of so much 
 " larnin' " for girls, especially when Beth was 
 " goin' to be married to that puny Mayfair." 
 Aunt Prudence always said her " say," as she 
 expressed it, but she meant well and Beth 
 understood. 
 
 Beth was not to go until Friday, and Clarence 
 was to meet her at the station. He had been 
 called away to the city with his father on 
 business more than a week before. Arthur was 
 with them to-day, but he was to leave on the 
 early morning train to join a college mate. He 
 was to be at Victoria University that winter 
 and Beth expected to see him often. 
 
 They had an early supper, and the September 
 sunset streamed through the open window on 
 the old-fashioned china tea-set. Beth was dis- 
 appointed after tea when her father's services 
 
"FOR I LOVE YOU, HETH." 
 
 49 
 
 son and ^| wf-re iT(|uirp(l iininediately by a p?iti«*nt several 
 iiiilos away. Artlinr and she sat down by that 
 same ,old parlor window in th(^ hush of the 
 coininf^ ni<jht: a few white clouds were spread 
 like an<j;el win^s above and the early stars were 
 sliiiiin^^ in the west. They were silent for ca 
 wlule. Arthur and Beth were often silent when 
 together, but the silence was a pleasinj^, not an 
 (Miiltnrrassin^ one. 
 " Are you sorry to leave home, Beth ? " asked 
 
 Arthiu'. 
 
 es. 
 
 am 
 
 and 
 
 wou 
 
 Id 
 
 you 
 
 bel 
 
 leve 1 
 
 t. I 
 
 tliouf^dit I'd be so glad to have a change, and 
 yot it makes me sad now the time is drawing 
 near." 
 
 They were silent again for a while. 
 
 " Arthur, do you know, I think it seems so 
 liard for you to go away so far and be a mis 
 sioiiary when you are so fond of home and 
 home life." 
 
 He smiled tenderly upon her, but she did not 
 know the meaning of that smile then as she 
 knew a little later. 
 
 " It is my Father's will," he .said with a 
 sweeter, graver smile. 
 
 " Beth, do you not see how your talent could 
 be used in the mission field ? " 
 
 " He does not know I am going to marry 
 4 
 
 ^ 
 
50 
 
 BETH WOODHUUN. 
 
 Clarence," she thought witli a Hiiiile, " and lie is 
 going to map out a life work for a maiden lady." 
 
 " No, I don't see how," she answered. 
 
 " You know there is a large proportion of i 
 world that never read such a thing as a mission- 
 ary book, and that if more such hooks were 
 read, missions would be better supported. Now, 
 if someone with bright talents were to write 
 fascinating stories of Arabian life or life in 
 Palestine, see how much interest would be 
 aroused. But then you would need to live 
 among the people and know their lives, and 
 who would know them so well as a missionary '" 
 
 Beth smiled at his earnestness. 
 
 " Oil, no, Arthur ; I couldn't do that." 
 
 His eyes filled in a moment with a sad, plead- 
 ing look. 
 
 " Beth, can you refuse longer to surrender 
 your life and your life's toil ? Look, Beth," he 
 said, pointing upward to the picture of Christ 
 upon the wall, " can you refuse Him — can you 
 refuse, Beth i " 
 
 " Oh, Arthur, don't," she said, drooping her 
 face. 
 
 •' But I mit8f, Beth ! Will you enter your 
 Father's service ? Once again I ask you." 
 
 Her eyes were turned away and she answered 
 nothing. 
 
FOR I LOVE Yor, IJKTH. 
 
 61 
 
 •' Beth," lie sjiid sol'tly, " I hiivc a more sellish 
 icasuii for ur<^in;,^ you — tor 1 love you, Hcth. I 
 have loved you niuce we were eliildren toi^etluT. 
 Will you be my own — my wile / It is ii lioly 
 service I ask you to share. Are you ready, 
 15.-th r' 
 
 Ker pale face was hidden in her hands, lie 
 touched her hair reverently. Tick ! tick ! tick ! 
 IVom the old clock in the silence. Then a 
 crimson flush, and she rose with sudden violenc<\ 
 
 "Oh, Arthur, what can you mean ^ I thought 
 — you seemed my brother almost — I tliou<;htyou 
 would always be that. Oh, Arthur! Arthur! 
 how can you — how dare you talk so i* I am 
 Clarence IMayfair's promised wife." 
 
 "Clarence Mayfair's — " The words died 
 away on his white lips. He leaned upon the 
 mantel-piece, and Beth stood with her ^rey eyes 
 Hxed. His face was so deathly white. His 
 eyes were shaded by his hand, and his brow 
 bore the marks of strong' .'ifjfony. Oh, he was 
 woinided ! Those moments were awful in their 
 silence. The darkness deepened in the old 
 parlor. There was a sound of voices passinfif in 
 tlu; street. The church bell broke the stillness. 
 Softly the old calm crept over his brow, and he 
 raised his face and looked at her with those 
 ^reat dark eyes — eyes of unfathomaljle tender- 
 
52 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 t i 
 
 i M • 
 
 ness and impenetrable fire, and she felt that 
 her very soul stood naked V>efore him. She 
 trembled and sank on the couch at her side. 
 His look was infinitely tender as he came to- 
 ward her. 
 
 " I have hurt you — forgive me." he said gently, 
 and he laid his hand on her head S(> reverently 
 for a moment. His white lips nuirmured some- 
 thing, but she only caught the last words, 
 " God bless you — forever. Good-bye, Beth — 
 little Beth." 
 
 He smiled back upon her as he left the room, 
 but she would rather he had looked sad. That 
 smile - she could never forget it, with its won- 
 derful sweetness and sorrow. 
 
 She sat motionless for a while after he left 
 the room. She felt thrilled and numbed 'J'here 
 are' moments in life when souls stand forth from 
 their clayey frames and touch each other, for- 
 getful of time and space. It was one of those 
 experiences that Beth had just passed through. 
 She went to her room and crouched down at her 
 window beneath the stars of that autumn niirht. 
 Poor Arthur ! She was so sad over it all. And 
 he had loved her ! How strange ! How could 
 it have been ^ Loved her since they were chil- 
 dren, he had said. She had never thought of 
 love coming like that. And they had played 
 
"FOR I LOVE YOU, 1?ETH." 
 
 53 
 
 together upon that meadow out there. They 
 liad <^rown up together and he had even lived 
 in her home tliose few years 1)efore lie went to 
 college. No, she had never dreamed of marry- 
 ing Arthur ! But oh, lie was wounded so ! She 
 had never seen him look like that before. And 
 he had hoped that she would share his life and 
 his labor. She thought how he had pictured 
 her far away under the burning sun of Palestine, 
 bathing his heated brow and cheering him for 
 fresh effort. He had pictured, perhaps, a little 
 humble home, quiet and peaceful, somewhere 
 ainid the snow-crested mountains of the East, 
 where he would walk with her in the cool of 
 night-fall, under the bright stars and clear sky 
 of that distant land. Poor, mistaken Arthur ! 
 She was not fitted for such a life, she thought. 
 They were never made for each other. Their 
 ambitions were not the same. She had found 
 her counterpart in Clarence, and he understood 
 her as Arthur never could have done. Arthur 
 was a grand, good, practical man, but there was 
 nothing of the artist-soul in him, she thought. 
 But she had hoped that he would always be her 
 own and Clarence's friend. He was such a 
 noble friend ! And now her hope was crushed. 
 She could never be the same to him again, she 
 knew, and he had said farewell. 
 
 H 
 
mm 
 
 54 
 
 BETH WOODBUllN. 
 
 "Good-bye, Beth— little Beth," he had said, 
 and she lingered over the last two words, " little 
 Beth." Yes, she would be " little Beth" to him 
 forever now, the little Beth that he had loved 
 an<l roamed with over meadow and woodland 
 and wayside, in the sunny, bygone days. 
 
 " Good-bye, Beth— little Beth !" Poor Arthur I 
 
VARSITY. 
 
 55 
 
 CHAPTER VI, 
 
 'VARSITY. 
 
 Fill DAY morning came, the last day of Sep- 
 tember, and the train whistled sharply as it 
 steamed around* the curve from Briarstield with 
 Beth at one of the car-windows It had almost 
 choked her to say good-bye to her father at the 
 station, and she was still straining her eyes to 
 catch the last glimpse of home. She could see 
 the two poplars at the gate almost last of all, as 
 the train bore her out into the open country. 
 She looked through her tears at the fields and 
 hills, the stretches of woodland and the old 
 laini-houses, with the vines clambering over 
 their porches, and the tomatoes ripening in the 
 kitchen window-sills. Gradually the tears dried, 
 lor there is pleasure always in travelling through 
 Western Ontario, particularly on the lake-side, 
 between Hamilton and Toronto. 
 
5G 
 
 BETH WOODHUllN. 
 
 Almost the first one Beth saw, as the train 
 entered Toronto station, was Chirence, scanninj^ 
 the car-windows eagerly for her face. Her eyes 
 beamed as he came toward her. She felt as if 
 at home ajjain. Marie had secured her room 
 for her, and Beth looked around with a pleased 
 air when the cab stopped on St. Mary's street. 
 It was a row of three-storey brick houses, all 
 alike, but a cheery, not monotonous, row, with 
 the maples in front, and Victoria University at 
 the end of the street. A plump, cheery land- 
 lady saw Beth to her room, and, once alone, she 
 did just what hundreds of other girls have done 
 in her place — sat down on that big trunk and 
 wept, and wondered what " dear old daddy " was 
 doing. But she soon controlled herself, and 
 looked around the room. It was a very pretty 
 room, with rocker and table, and a book-shelf in 
 the corner. There was a large window, too, 
 opening to the south, with a view of St. Michael's 
 College and St. Basil's Church. Beth realized 
 that this room was to be her home for the com- 
 ing months, and, kneeling down, she asked that 
 the presence of Christ might hallow it. 
 
 She was not a very close follower of Christ, 
 but the weakest child of God never breathed a 
 prayer unheard. 
 
 It was such a pleasant treat when Marie 
 
'VARSITV. 
 
 bi 
 
 tapped at the door just before tea. It would ])e 
 nice to have Marie tliere all winter. Beth 
 looked around the tea-table at the new faces : 
 Mrs. Owen, at one end of tlie table, decidedly 
 stout: Mr. Owen, at the other end, decidedly 
 lean. There were two sweet-faced children, a 
 liandsonie, gloomy-browed lawyer, and Marie at 
 licr side. 
 
 The next day, Clarence took Beth over to 
 Varsity — as Toronto University is popularly 
 called — and she never forgot that bright autunni 
 inorn'ng when she passed under the arch of 
 carved stone into the University halls, those 
 lonix halls throntjed with students. Clarence 
 left her in the care of a gentle fourth-year girl, 
 lleth was taken from lecturer to lecturer until 
 the registering was done, and then she stopped 
 Ity one of the windows in the ladies' dressing- 
 room to gaze at the beautiful autunni scenery 
 around — the ravine, with its dark pines, and 
 the Parlian,ent buildings l)eyond. Beth was 
 beginning to love the place. 
 
 We nmst not pause long over that first year 
 that Beth spent at 'Varsity. It passed like a 
 Hash to her, the days were so constantly occu- 
 pied. But her memory was being stored with 
 scenes she never forgot. It was so refreshing 
 on the brisk, autunni mornings to walk to 
 
58 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 t 
 
 lectures throujjjh the crimson and yellow leaves 
 of Queen's Park : and, later in the year, when 
 the snow was falling she liked to listen to the 
 rooks cawing among the pines behind the 
 library. Sometimes, too, she walked home 
 alone in the wierd, winter twilight from the 
 Modern Language Club, or from a late lecture, 
 her mind all aglow with new thoughts. Then 
 there were the social evenings in the gymna- 
 sium, with its red, blue and white decorations, 
 palms and promenades, and music of the orches- 
 tra, and hum of strange voices. It was all 
 new to Beth ; she had seen so little of tlie 
 world. There was the reception the Y.W.C.A. 
 gave to the " freshettes " — she enjoyed that, 
 too. What kind girls they were ! Beth Mas 
 not slow to decide that the " 'Varsity maid " 
 would make a model wife, so gentle and kindly 
 and with such a broad, progressive mind. Still 
 Beth made hardly any friendships worthy of 
 the name that first year. She was peculiar in 
 this respect. In a crowd of girls she was apt to 
 like all, but to love none truly. When she did 
 make friends she came upon them suddenly, by 
 a sort of instinct, as in the case of Marie, and 
 became so absorbed in them she forgot everyone 
 else. This friendship with Marie was another 
 feature of her present life that pleased her. Slie 
 
 m 
 
VAUSITV. 
 
 59 
 
 liad dropped out of Sunday-school work. She 
 thouj^lit city Sunday-schools chilly, and she 
 spt'ut many a Sunday afternoon in Marie's room. 
 She liked to sit there in the rocker hy the grate 
 tire, and listen to Marie talk as she reclined in 
 tile cushions, with her dark, pictures([ue face. 
 Tliey talked of love an<l life and books and 
 music, and the world and its ways, for Marie 
 was clever and thouohtful. In after a jars Beth 
 l()()l<ed back on those Sunday afternoons with a 
 sliadow of regret, for lier feet found a sweeter, 
 JKjIier path. Marie prided herself on a little 
 tiiine of scepticism, but they rarely touched on 
 that ground. The twilight shadows gathered 
 aljout the old piano in the corner, and the pic- 
 tures grew dinnner on the wall, and Marie would 
 play soft love-songs on her guitar, and some- 
 time Beth would recite one of her poems. 
 
 " Have you finished the novel you were 
 writing last summer, Beth ? " asked Marie, one 
 (lay. 
 
 " Xo, there are just three more chapters, and 
 I am going to leave them till holidays, next 
 sununer, so I can give them my full time and 
 attention." 
 
 " Tell me the story." 
 
 Tlien Beth sat by the tire with a dreamy look 
 on her face and told the plot of her story. Marie 
 
 I'., 
 
raiiiiii!' 
 
 CO 
 
 BETH WOODIUMIN. 
 
 11' 
 
 loaned forward, a bright, deliglited sparkle in 
 hur dark eyes. Beth had never interested her liki- 
 that befoi'e. She felt enc()uran;ed, and Marie 
 was in raptures when she had finished. 
 
 " It's just splendid ! Oh, Beth, how clever 
 you are ; you will be famous soon. I sliall bo 
 proud of your friendship." 
 
 Beth did not enjoy as much of the company 
 of Clarence as she had hoped during these days, 
 though he always brought her hoiiK^ from church 
 on Sunday evening. Marie was always with 
 them. Beth never thought of leaving her, and 
 Clarence, too, seemed to enjoy her company. 
 Beth was pleased at this; she liked to havi* 
 Clarence appreciate her friends. Then, they 
 three often went to the musical concerts ; Betli 
 liked those concerts so much, and Marie's fiice 
 would fairly sparkle sometimes, and chanife 
 with every wave of music. 
 
 " Just look ! Isn't Marie's face grand ? " said 
 Clarence one night in a concert. 
 
 Beth only smiled. That night she sat in the 
 rocker opposite her mirror and looked at her 
 own reflection. 
 
 " What a grave, grey-eyed face it is I " she 
 thought. She loved music and beautiful things, 
 and yet she wondered why her eyes never 
 sparkled and glowed like Marie's. She wished 
 they had more expression. And yet Marie was 
 
VARSITY. 
 
 61 
 
 not a pretty <j^u'\ : no one wouM have tlioui^ht for 
 a iiioiiiont of calling her pretty. 
 
 hut what of Ai'thur:' Betli was surprised 
 that fhu'in*^ all this time slie liad seen liini hut 
 (iiico, thoutrli she Hved so near to Vict(jria. That 
 once was in the llniversity hall. Slie had 
 
 stiKlied late one aft< 
 
 th 
 
 fli 
 
 noon, in tne n^aanif^-room, 
 afttT tlie other {^irls w«'re <^one, and it was just 
 whore the two cori'idors met that she came face 
 to face witli Arthur. Jle stopped, and inquired 
 al>out her studies and her health, and his eyes 
 ifsted kindly upon lier for a moment; but he 
 •li'l not speak to her just like the old Arthur. 
 "(lood-hye, Beth— little Beth." She recalled 
 the words as she passed down the lonf^, deserted 
 hall, with its row of lights on either side. 
 
 There was another thiuij: that touched Beth. 
 It was when Marie left them just before the 
 examinations in the spring ; she was going to 
 visit some friends. Sweet j\Iarie ! How she 
 would miss her. She sat by the drawing- room 
 window waiting to bid her good-bye. It was a 
 bright April day, with soft clouds and a mild 
 hreeze playing through the budding trees. 
 .Marie came down looking so pictures(|ue under 
 her broad-brimmed hat, and lifted lier veil to 
 receive Betli's farewell kiss. Beth watched her 
 as she crossed the lawn to the cab. Clarence 
 came hurrying up to clasp her hand at the gate. 
 
 I, i 
 
62 
 
 BETH WU0D15UUX. 
 
 vv: 
 
 ■*,- 
 
 lie looked paler, Beth tliou^^ht : she hoped lie 
 would come in, but he turned without lookiii;^' 
 .at her wind(nv and hurried away. Beth felt !i 
 little sad at heart; .she looked at the loiii:, 
 empty drawing-room, and sit^^hed faintly, thtii 
 went back ui)stairs to her books. 
 
 And wliat had that winter brou^dit to Beth f 
 She had grown; she felt it within herself. Her 
 mind had stretched out over the great widi 
 world with its millions, and even over the 
 worlds of the sky at night, and at times slie 
 h.ad been overwhelmed at the glory of earths 
 Creator. Yes, she had grown ; but with her 
 growth had come a restlessness ; she felt us 
 though something were giving way beneath her 
 feet like an iceberg melting in mild waters. 
 There was one particular night that this restless- 
 ness had been strong. She had been to the 
 Modern Language Club, and listened to a lec- 
 ture on Walt Whitman, by Dr. Needier. Slie 
 had never read any of Whitman's poetry before: 
 she did not even like it. But there were phrases 
 and sentences here and there, sometimes of 
 Whitman's, sometimes of Dr. Needler's, that 
 awakened a strange incoherent music in her 
 soul — a new chord was struck. It was almost 
 dark when she reached her room, at the close of 
 a stormy winter day. She stood at her window 
 watching the crimson and black drifts of cloud 
 
 ;.i 
 
 !H 
 
VAKSITV. 
 
 G'^ 
 
 jiilnl Upon each other in tlie west. Strife .and 
 priory she Keenied to read in that sky. She 
 tliou^Mit of Wliitnian's ru«^;^rt'd manliness, of the 
 way he liad mingled witli all classes of men — 
 iiiiii'Med with them to do them irood. Anrl Heth's 
 heiirt cried out within her, only to do something 
 in this jL^avat, wear}' world — somethin<;- to uplift, 
 to ennoble men, to raise the lowlv, to feed and 
 to clothe the uncared for, to brighten the mil- 
 lions of homes, to lift men — she knew not 
 where. This cry in Beth's heart was often 
 heard after that — to be great, to do something 
 for others. She was growing weary of the nar- 
 row l)oundaries of self. She would do good, but 
 she knew not how. She heard a hungry world 
 crvinjjf at her feet, but she had not the bread 
 they craved. Poor, l)linded bird, Ideating against 
 the bars of heaven ! Clarence never seemed to 
 understand her in those moods : lie had no sym- 
 pathy with them. ALas, he had never known 
 Hcth Woodburn ; he liad understood her intel- 
 lectual nature, but he had never sounded the 
 depths of her womanly soul. He did not know 
 she had a heart larj^e enough to embrace the 
 whole world, when once it was opened. Poor, 
 weak, blinded Clarence ! She was as much 
 stronger than he, as the star is greater than the 
 moth that flutters towards it. 
 
« 
 
 64 
 
 HETH WOODHUUX. 
 
 CHAPTEli VTI. 
 
 ENPEP. 
 
 t\ 
 
 June was almost over, and Beth had been 
 home a full month on that lonj^ four months' 
 vacation that university students are privileged 
 to enjoy. She was very ambitious when she 
 came home that first vacation. She had con- 
 ceived a fi'csh idiuil of womanhood, a woman 
 not only brilliantly'' educated and accomplished, 
 but also a, gentlo (jueen of the home, one who 
 thorouyjhly understood the work of her home. 
 Clarence was (juite pleased when she began to 
 extol cooking as an art, and Dr. Woodburn 
 looked through the open kitchen-door wit^ 
 smile at his daughter hidden behin^' • 
 white apron and al)sorbed in the m\ .ries 
 
 I litile 
 
 the pastry board. Aunt Prudence 
 astonished, but she never w^ould 
 Beth's way of doing things — " didn't see the 
 
 wa.s 
 appro v 
 
KNDEI). 
 
 6.1 
 
 sense of a notc-l)()ok and lead-pencil. " But 
 Httli knew what she was doin<; in that respect. 
 
 Then there were so many books that Beth 
 intended to read in that vacation I Marie had 
 coino to the Mayfair's, too, and helped her to 
 |)iiss some pleasant hours. But there was some- 
 tliinir else that was holding Heth's attention. 
 It was Saturday eveninfi^, and that story 
 was almost finished, that story on which she 
 liiul l)uilt so many hopes. She sat in her room 
 with the great pile of written sheets before her, 
 almost finished : but her head was weary, and 
 slie did not feel ecjual to writing the closing 
 scene that night. She wanted it to be the most 
 touching scene of all, and so it had to be rolled 
 up for another week. Just then the door-bell 
 rung and Mrs. Ashley was announced, our old 
 friend Edith Mayfair, the same sweet, fair girl 
 under another name. 
 
 They sat down by the window and had a 
 l()!ig chat. 
 
 " Have you seen the new minister and his 
 wife yet ?" asked Edith. 
 
 "No; I heard he was going to preach to- 
 morrow." 
 
 The Kev. Mr. Perth, as the new Methodist 
 
 iiiinist'r, was just now ocupying the attention 
 
 of Bi' stield. 
 .1 
 
66 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 ■I 
 
 " It's interest g .o have new people come to 
 town. I wonder if they will be very nice. Are 
 they young ? " asked Beth. 
 
 " Yes. They haven't been married so very 
 long." 
 
 " Edith " — Beth hesitated before she finished 
 the quietly eager enquiry — " do you still think 
 marriage the best thing in the world ? " 
 
 Edith gave her friend a warm embrace in 
 reply. " Yes, Beth, I think it the very best 
 thing, if God dwell in your home." 
 
 " That sounds like Arthur," said Beth. 
 
 " Do you ever hear of him. Where is he ? " 
 
 " I don't know where he is," said Beth, with a 
 half sigh. 
 
 Clarence walked home with Beth to dinner, 
 after church, the next morning. 
 
 " How do you like the new minister ? " Beth 
 asked. 
 
 " Oh, I think he's a clever little fellow." 
 
 * So do I," said Beth. " He seems to be a man 
 of progressive ideas. I think we shall have 
 bright, interesting sermons." 
 
 Marie was slightly ill that Sunday, and did 
 not come out. Clarence and Beth took a 
 stroll in the moonlight. The world looked 
 bright and beautiful beneath the stars, but 
 Clarence was (juieter even than usual, and Beth 
 
ENDED. 
 
 67 
 
 sighed faintly. Clarence was growinj^ strangely 
 quiet and unconfidential. He was certainly not 
 a demonstrative lover. Perhaps, after all, love 
 was not all she had dreamed. She had painted 
 her dreamland too bright. She did not acknow- 
 ledge this thought, even to her own soul ; but her 
 licart was a little hungry that summer night. 
 Poor Beth I Before another Sabbath she was 
 to know a greater pain than mere weariness. 
 Tlie flames were being kindled that were to 
 scorch that poor heart of hers. 
 
 It was about ten o'clock the next niglit when 
 she finished her novel. Somehow it gave her a 
 jrrave feeling. Aunt Prudence was in bed, and 
 Dr. Woodburn had gone out into the country to 
 a ])atient, and would not return till midmight. 
 The house was so still, and the sky and the stars 
 so beautiful ; the curtains of her open window 
 just moved in the night air ! It was all ended 
 now — that dreamland which she had lived and 
 loved and gave expression to on those sheets of 
 paper. Ended ! And she was sitting there 
 with her pen in her hand, her work finished, 
 bendinff over it as a mother does over her child. 
 She almost dreaded to resign it to a publisher, 
 to cast it upon the world. And yet it would 
 return to her, bringing her fame ! She was 
 sure of that. The last scene alone would make 
 
68 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 her famous. She could ahnost see the sweet 
 earnest-eyed woman in her white robes at the 
 altar ; she could hear the sound of voices and 
 the tread of feet ; she was even conscious of the 
 fragrance of the flowers. It was all so vivid to 
 her! 
 
 Then a sudden impulse seized her. She would 
 like so much to show it to Clarence, to talk to 
 him, and feel his sympathy. He never retired 
 much before midnight, and it was scarcely ten 
 minutes' walk. She would get back before her 
 father returned, and no one would know. 
 Seizing her hat, she went (juietly out. It was a 
 freak, but then Beth had freaks now and then. 
 A great black cloud drifted over the moon, and 
 made everything quite dark. A timid girl would 
 have been frightened, but Beth was not timid. 
 
 She knew Clarence was likely to be in the 
 library, and so went around to the south side. 
 The library window was (luite close to the door 
 of the side hall, and as Betli came up the terrace, 
 through the open window a picture met her eyes 
 that held her spell-bound. 
 
 Clarence and Marie were sittint; side bv side 
 on the sofa, a few feet from the window. 
 Marie's dark face was drooping slightly, her 
 cheeks flushed, and her lips just parted in a smile. 
 There was a picture of the Cruciflxion on the 
 
 -dii 
 
ENDED. 
 
 69 
 
 wall above tliem, and ricli violet curtains hanj^- 
 intr to one side. One of Marie's slender olive 
 hands rested on the crimson cushions at her side, 
 the other Clarence was stroking with a tender 
 touch. Both were silent for a moment. Then 
 Clarence spoke in a soft, low tone : 
 
 " Marie, I want to tell you something." 
 
 " Do you ? Then tell me." 
 
 " I don't like to say it," he answered. 
 
 " Yes. do. Tell me." 
 
 " If I were not an engaged man," — his voice 
 seemed to tremble faintly and his face grew 
 paler — " I should try and win you for my wife." 
 
 Beth drew back a step, her young cheek color- 
 less as death. No cry escaped her white lips, 
 but her heart almost ceased its beating. It was 
 only a moment she stood there, but it seemed 
 like years. The dark, blushing girl, the weak, 
 fair-haired youth in whom she had placed her 
 trust, the pictures, the cushions, the curtains, 
 every detail of the scene, seemed printed with tire 
 upon her soul. She was stung. She had put 
 her lips to the cup of bitterness, and her face 
 looked wild and haggard as she turned away. 
 
 Only the stars above and the night winJ sigh- 
 ing in the leaves, and a heart benumbed with 
 pain ! A tall man passed her in the shadow of 
 the trees as she was crossing the lawn, but she 
 
 •n 
 
 w 
 
70 
 
 BETFI WOODBURN. 
 
 \m' 
 
 i 
 
 paid no heed. The lif^hts in the village homes 
 were goint^ out one by one as she returned up the 
 dark, deserted street. The moon emerged from 
 the clouds, and filled her room with a flood of 
 unnatural light just as she entered. She threw 
 herself upon her pillow, and a cry of pain went 
 up from her wounded heart. She started the 
 next instant in fear lest some one had heard. 
 But no, there was no one near here, save that 
 loving One who hears every moan : and Beth had 
 not learned yet that He can lull every sufferer 
 to rest in His bosom. The house was perfectly 
 still, and she lay there in the darkness and 
 silence, no line changing in the rigid marble of 
 her face. She heard her father's step pass by in 
 the hall ; then the old clock struck out the mid- 
 night hour, and still she lay in that stupor with 
 drops of cold perspiration on her brow. 
 
 Suddenly a change came over her. Her cheeks 
 grew paler still, but her eyes burned. She rose 
 and paced the room with (juick, agitated steps. 
 
 " Traitress ! Traitress ! " she almost hissed 
 through her white lips. *' It is her fault. It is 
 her fault. And I called her friend. Friend ! 
 Treachery ! " 
 
 Then she sank upon her bed, exhausted by the 
 outburst of passion, for it took but little of this 
 to exhaust Beth. She was not a passionate girl. 
 
ENDED. 
 
 71 
 
 Perhaps, never in her life before had she passed 
 through anything like passion, and she hiy 
 there now still and white, her hands folded as in 
 death. 
 
 l!] the meantime something else had hap- 
 pened at the Mayfair dwelling. She had not 
 noticed the tall man that passed her as she 
 crossed the lawn in the darkness, but a moment 
 later a dark figure paused on the terrace in the 
 same spot where she had stood, and his attention 
 was arrested by the same scene in the library, 
 lie paused but a moment before entering, but 
 even his firm tread was unheard on the soft 
 carpet, as he strode up the hall to the half-open 
 curtains of the library. Marie's face was still 
 drooping, but the next instant the curtains were 
 thrown back violently, and they both paled at 
 the sight of the stern, dark face in the door- way. 
 
 '* Clarence Mayfair ! " he cried in a voice of 
 stern indignation. " Clarence Mayfair, you dare 
 to speak words of love to that woman at your 
 side ^ You ! Beth Woodburn's promised hus- 
 band ? " 
 
 " Arthur Grafton ! " exclaimed Clarence, and 
 Marie drew back through the violet curtains. 
 
 A firm hand grasped Clarence by the shoulder, 
 and, white with fear, he stood trembling before 
 his accuser. 
 
 1 1 
 
72 
 
 BETH WOODBURJ^. 
 
 " Wretch! unwortliy wretcli ! And you claim 
 her liand ! Do you know her wortli ? " 
 
 " In tlie name of lieaven, Cirafton, don't ahirni 
 the house !" said Clarence, in a terrified whisper. 
 His lip trembled with emotion, and Arthur's 
 dark eyes flashed with fire. There was a shadt; 
 ot* pitiful scorn in them, too. After all. what a 
 mere boy this delicate j'^outh looked, he thoug;ht. 
 Perhaps he was too harsh. He had only heard 
 a sentence or two outside the window, and he 
 might have judged too harshly. 
 
 " I know it, I know I have wronged her," said 
 Clarence, in a choked voice ; " but don't betray 
 
 « '» 
 
 mei 
 
 There was a ring of true penitence and sorrow 
 in the voice that touched Arthur, and as he 
 raised his face to that picture of the Crucifixion 
 on the wall, it softened gradually. 
 
 " Well, perhaps I am severe. May God for- 
 give you, Clarence. But it is hard for a man to 
 see another treat the woman he — well, there, I'll 
 say no more. Only promise me you will be true 
 to her — more worthy of her." 
 
 " I will try, Arthur. Heaven knows I have 
 always meant to be honorable." 
 
 " Then, good-bye, Clarence. Only you need 
 not tell Beth you have seen me to-night," said 
 Arthur, as he turned to leave ; " I shall be out 
 of Briarsfield before morning." 
 
ENDED. 
 
 73 
 
 I'oor Artluir ! Time; liad not yet licaled his 
 wound, but he was one of those ])rave souls who 
 c'iiii " suffer and be still." That ni^ht, as he was 
 ])jissing tlirou<j;li Briarsfield on the late train, a 
 (It'sire had seized him to go back to the old place 
 just once more, to walk up and down for a 
 littl(! while before the home of the woman he 
 loved. He did not care to speak to hei* or 
 to meet her face to face. She was another's 
 promised wife. Only to be near her home — to 
 breathe one deep blessinj^ upon her, and then to 
 leave before break of day, and she would never 
 know he liad been near. He had come under 
 cover of the darkness, and had seen her descend- 
 ing the great wide stairway in her wdiite muslin 
 dress, and going down the dark street toward 
 the Mayfairs'. After a little while he had 
 followed, even approached the windows of 
 Clarence Mayfairs home, hoping for one last 
 look. But he had passed her in the shadow of 
 the trees, and had only seen what filled his 
 heart with sorrow. A meaner man would have 
 taken advantage of the sight, and exposed his 
 rival. But Arthur had anything but a mean 
 soul. He believed Beth loved Clarence, as he 
 thought a woman should love the man to wdiom 
 she gives her life. He believed that God was 
 calling him to the mission-field alone. He had 
 only caught a few words that Clarence had said 
 
74 
 
 HETII WOODBCRK. 
 
 to Marie, and he fancied it may, after all, have 
 been mere nonsense. Surely he could not havf 
 ceased to love Betli ! Surely he could not bi- 
 blind to her merits I Artliur saw only too truly 
 how weak, emotional and chantjeable Clarencu 
 w.as, but it was not his place to interfere with 
 those whom God had joined. So he argued tu 
 himself. 
 
 Bat the night was passing, and Beth still lay 
 there, no tear on her cold white cheeks. The 
 clock struck one, a knell-like sound in the 
 night ! Beth lay there, her hands folded on her 
 breast, the prayer unuttered by her still lips- 
 one for death. The rest were sleeping quietly 
 in their beds. They knew nothing of her suf- 
 fering. They would never know. Oh, if that 
 silent messenger would but come now, and still 
 her weary heart ! They would come in the 
 morning to look at her. Yes, Clarence would 
 come, too. Perhaps he would love her just a 
 little then. Perhaps he would think of her 
 tenderly when he saw her with the white roses 
 in her hands. Oh, was there a God in heaven 
 who could look down on her sorrow to-night, 
 and not in pity call her home ? She listened 
 for the call that would bear her far beyond this 
 earthly strife, where all w^as such tangle and 
 confusion. She listened, but she heard it not, 
 
EXDED. 
 
 <i) 
 
 iiiid tlio (larkncss doepeiKMl, tlio moon grew pale 
 iiii<l the stars faded away. Tlie house was so 
 still ! The whistle of a steain-eiiirine broke the 
 silence, and she saw the red light as the train 
 swept around the curve. It was bearing Arthur 
 away, and she did not know that one who loved 
 
 her had b 
 
 Then she 
 
 lior nari heen so near; men she saw a grey 
 v([("du\ in the cast. Ah, no ! she could not die. 
 The day was coming again, and she would liave 
 to face them all. She would sit in the same 
 place at the breakfast table. Slie would meet 
 Clarence ag-in, and Marie — oh — oh, she could 
 not bear the thought of it ! She sat up on her 
 bedside with such a weary, anguished look in 
 her eyes ! Then she went to kneel at the open 
 window, where lier mother had taught her to 
 kneel long years ago. Her sweet-faced, long- 
 dead mother ! When she raised her eyes again 
 the east was all aglow with the pink and purple 
 (lawn, and the rooks were cawing in the pines 
 across the meadow. She paced the floor for a 
 moment or two. 
 
 " Yes, it must be done. I will do it," she 
 thought. " He loves her. I will not stand in 
 the way of his happiness. No ; I had rather 
 die." 
 
 Awd she took a sheet of note-paper, and wrote 
 these simple words : 
 
7G 
 
 iiETH wooDnrux. 
 
 "Dear Claren(je, — I do not V)eHovo you love 
 me any iiioro. I can never be your wife. I 
 know your secret. I know you love Marie. 1 
 have seen it often in your eyes. Ue happy with 
 her, and forget nie. May you be very happy, 
 always. Good-bye. Beth." 
 
 She took it herself to the Mavfair hoiiic, 
 knowing that her father would only think she 
 had irone out for a nioi'nini'' walk. The suiokc- 
 wreaths were curling upward from the kitchen 
 chimneys as she passed down the street, and 
 Squire Mayfair looked a little surprised when 
 she handed him her note for Clarence, and 
 turned to walk away. 
 
 That sleepless, tearless night had told upon 
 her, and she was not able to come down to 
 breakfast. Her father came in, and looked at 
 her with a professional air. 
 
 " Just what I told you, Beth. You've worked 
 too hard. You need rest. That's just what's 
 the matter," he said, in a brusque voice, as he put 
 some medicine on the table and left the room. 
 
 Rest ! Yes, she could rest now. Her w^ork 
 was done. She looked at the sheet of manu- 
 script that she had taken last night to show 
 Clarence. Yes, the work was done. She Inid 
 reached the end of her story — the end of her 
 prospect of marriage. Ended her labor — ended 
 her life- dream ! 
 
 \V: 
 
ENDED. 
 
 77 
 
 As for Clarence, he road lier note without any 
 I'liiotion. 
 
 • Hunipli I I didn't think (Jrafton wa.s the 
 fi'llow to make mischief so cjuickly. A talc- 
 licarcr ! Well, it's all for the best. I made a 
 mistake. I do not love Beth Woodburn. I 
 cannot understand her." 
 
 Beth slept, and seemed inuch better in the 
 afternoon, but she was still <[uite pale when she 
 went into her father's room after tea. 
 
 " Dear old daddy," she said, putting her arms 
 about his neck, "you were always so kind. 
 You never refuse me anything if you can help 
 it. I wish you would lot me go away." 
 
 " Why, certainly, Beth, dear ! " he said briskly. 
 " Isn't that just what I've been telling you ? 
 St(^p writing all day in that hot room up-stairs. 
 Go ort' and have a frolic. Go and see your Aunt 
 Margaret." 
 
 And so it was settled that if Bi'th were well 
 eiionirh she should start for Welland next after- 
 noon. She did not see Clarence during the next 
 morning. It surprised her that he sought no 
 explanation, and before throe o'clock Briarsfield 
 was a mere speck in the distance. 
 
78 
 
 BETH WOODHURN. 
 
 CHAPTER VTIl. 
 
 THE HE A VENLY CANAAN. 
 
 Nearly two montlis later Beth retunu'<l 
 lioiiie. Marie lip*(l broken off her visit abruptly, 
 and Clarence had <,^one away. It was a rainy 
 Saturday, and Beth sat waitin^^ for her father 
 to finish his rounds. Her visit had refreshed 
 her, and she looked fairly well again. After 
 all, she had so many bright prospects ! She 
 was young and talented. Her novel was 
 finished. She would read it throuirh at once, 
 making minor corrections, and thei: publish it. 
 With all youth's hopefulness, she w^as sure 
 of fame and worldly success, perhaps of wealth 
 too. She seemed to see a rich harvest-field 
 before her as she sat listening to the rain beat 
 on the roof that summer afternoon. But, after 
 all, she was not happy. Somehow, life was 
 all so hollow ! So much tangle and confusion ' 
 
THE HEAVENLY CANAAN. 
 
 70 
 
 H<'r younj^ feet were weary. It was not simply 
 tliat lier love was unretunied. That pained her 
 far less than she would have thouf^ht. It was 
 that her idol was shattered. Only in the last 
 tew weeks had she be^un to see Clarence May- 
 fair as he really was. It was a wonderfully deep 
 iiisi^dit into human nature that Beth had ; but 
 she had never applied it where Clarence was 
 concerned before, and now that she did, what 
 was it she saw? — a weak, waverinj^, fickle youth, 
 wivh a good deal of fine sentiment, perhaps, 
 but without firm, manly strength ; ambitious, 
 it was true, but never likely to fulfil his ambi- 
 tions. The sight pained her. And yet this was 
 the one she had exalted so, and had believed a 
 soaring genius. True, his mind had fine fibre 
 in it, but he who would soar must have strength 
 as well as wings. Beth saw clearly just what 
 Clarence lacked, and what can pain a woman 
 more deeply than to know the object she has 
 idealized is unworthy ? 
 
 Beth had not told her father yet that all was 
 at an end between her and Clarence. She 
 dreaded telling iiim that, but she knew he must 
 have learned it from the May fairs during her 
 absence. She sighed as she thought of it all, 
 iind just then Dr. Woodburn came in and sat 
 down on the couch beside her. They talked 
 
 .-:| 
 
mm 
 
 80 
 
 BETH WOODJiURX. 
 
 until the twilight of that rainy afternoon bcf^^iii 
 to deepen. Then they were silent for a while, 
 and Beth saw her father looking at her with a 
 tender look in his eyes. 
 
 " Beth, my dear child, what is wrong between 
 you and Clarence ? 
 
 Slie had believed she could tell him nil witli 
 perfect calnmess, but there was something so 
 very gentle in his look and voice that it dis- 
 armed her, and slie threw both arms about his 
 neck, and burst into tears. 
 
 " Oh, father, dear, I could not marry him. It 
 would not be right. He loves Marie de Vere." 
 
 Dr. Woodburn turned away his face, tendei'ly 
 stroking her hair as she leaned upon his l)reast. 
 He spoke no wor<l, but she knew what he felt. 
 
 " Oh, daddy, dear, don't think anything about 
 it," she said, giving liim a warm embrace' as she 
 looked up at him, smiling through her tears. 
 *' I'm not unhappy. I have so many things to 
 think of, and I have always you, you dear old 
 fathei'. 1 love you better than anyone else on 
 earth. I will be your own little daughter 
 always." 
 
 She pressed her arms aboiit him more tightly, 
 and there were tears in his eyes as he stooped 
 to kiss her brow. 
 
 Beth thought of all his tenderness that night 
 
THE HEAVENLY CANAAN. 
 
 <S1 
 
 as she lay in bed, and then .slept, with the rain 
 l)eatinf^ on the roof overhead. 
 
 It was a bright sunshiny Sabbatli morning 
 when she awoke. She remembered with plea- 
 sure how much she had liked Mr. F^erth, the 
 new minister, that Sunday. She had heard 
 liiiu before she went away. He had seemed 
 such an energetic, wide-awake, inspiring man ! 
 Both liked that stamp of people. She meant to 
 be a progressive girl. She meant to labor much 
 and to have much success. 
 
 She was quite early at church that morning, 
 and interested herself by looking at Mrs. Perth, 
 whom she had never seen before. She was a 
 fair, slender, girlish creature — very youthful 
 indeed for a married woman. She had a great 
 n.'iiss of light hair, drawn back plainly .Vom a 
 serenely fair forehead. The fashion became her 
 well, for, in fact, the most striking thing about 
 her face was its simplicity and purity. She 
 was certainly plain-looking, but Beth fancied 
 her face looked like the white cup of a lily. 
 She had such beautiful blue eyes, too, and such 
 a sweet smile. 
 
 "I think I shall love her. I believe we shall 
 be great friends," thought Heth, after she had 
 had an introduction to Mrs. Perth; and they did 
 become fast friends. 
 
82 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 Beth had seldom been at Sunday-school since 
 she left home, but an impulse seized her to go 
 this afternoon. She was (juite early, and she 
 sat down in a seat b/ herself to muse awhile. 
 She gazed at the lilies about the altar and the 
 stained -glass windows above the organ. How 
 long it seemed to look back to that Sunday of 
 two months ago I She shuddered slightly, and 
 tried to change her thoughts, but she could not 
 help going back to it. It seemed as though 
 years had since passed. So it is always. We 
 go about our daily tasks, and the time passes 
 swiftly or slowly, according as our lives are 
 active or monotonous. Then a crisis comes — 
 an upheaval — a turn in the current. It lasts but 
 a moment, perhaps, but when we look back, 
 years seem to have intervened. Beth gave a 
 half sigh, and concluded she was a little weary, 
 as the people poured into the Bible-class. Mrs. 
 Perth came and sat beside Beth. Js it not 
 strange how, in this world of formality aiul 
 convention, we meet someone now and again, 
 and there is but a look, a word, a smile, and we 
 feel that we have known them so long ? There 
 is something familiar in their face, and we seem 
 to have walked beside them all along the way. 
 It w^as just so with Beth and Mrs. Perth. Sweet 
 May Perth ! She .soon learned to call her that. 
 
THE HEAVENLY CANAAN. 
 
 88 
 
 Beth was never to forget timt Sunday after- 
 noon. Mr. Perth taught the BiV)In-claRs. He 
 was an enthusiastic man, reniinrling her some- 
 what of Arthur. They were studying, that day, 
 the approach of the Israelites to Canaan, and as 
 Mr. Perth grew more earnest, Beth's face wore 
 a hrighter look of interest. Soon lie laid aside 
 historical retros})eet, and talked of the heavenly 
 Canaan toward which Christ's people were 
 journeying, a bright land shining in the sun- 
 light of God's love, joy in abundance, joy over- 
 flowing ! He looked so happy as he talked of 
 that Divine love, changeless throughout all time, 
 throughout all eternity — a love that never for- 
 sakes, that lulls the weary like a cradle-song, a 
 love that satisfies even the secret longings ! 
 Oh, that woman heart of hers, how it yearned, 
 yea, hungered for a love like that love, that 
 could tread the earth in humiliaticm, bearing 
 the cross of others' guilt, dying there at Cal- 
 vary 1 She knew that old, old story well, but 
 she drank it in like a little wondering child 
 to-day. What were those things He promised 
 to those who would tread the shining pathway ? 
 Life, peace, rest, hope, joy of earth, joy of 
 heaven ! Oh, how she longed to go with them ! 
 The tears were standing in her eyes, and her 
 heart was beating faster. But this one thing 
 
84 
 
 BETH WOODHURN. 
 
 she must do, or turn aside from the promised 
 land of God's people. Down at the feet of 
 Jesus she must lay her all. And what of that 
 novel she had written ? Could she carry that 
 over into this heavenly Canaan <' " The fire 
 shall try every man's work of what sort it is." 
 Hers would perish, she knew that well. Highly 
 moral, highly relined and scholarly, but what 
 of its doubts, its shadows, its sorrows without 
 liope, its supernatural gloom ? Beth was a 
 master-artist in the field of gloom. She knew 
 how to make her readers shudder, but would 
 that story of hers bring more joy into the 
 world ? Would it sweeten life and warm 
 human hearts ? Ah, no ! And yet, could she 
 destroy it now, before its publication ? Could 
 she bear the thought of it ? She loved it almost 
 as a mother loves her child. A look of inde- 
 cision crossed her face. But, just then, she 
 seemed to hear the bells of heaven ringing forth 
 their sweet CJospel call. The bright sunshine 
 and the angel voices of a higher life seemed to 
 break in on her >'oul. In a moment — slie never 
 knew how it was — she became willing to sur- 
 render all. It was hardly a year since she had 
 said nay to Artluir, when he asked her t«> 
 lay her life at the f< .t of that same Jesus of 
 Nazareth. She refused then, and even «»in.' 
 
THE HEAVEXLY CANAAX. 
 
 80 
 
 liour affo she would still have refused : but now 
 she would have trudged the highways, poverty- 
 stricken, unknown and obscure, for His dear 
 sake. She would have gone forth, like St. Paul, 
 to the uttermost ends of the earth, she felt she 
 loved Him so ! There were tears in her eyes, 
 and a new joy seemed to throb in her heart. 
 She felt so kindly to everyone about her. Wsm 
 it an impulse or what ? She laid her hand 
 softly on May Perth's as she sat beside her, 
 and May, looking into her eyes, seemed to read 
 her heart. She held her hand with a warm, 
 l(jving presjmre, and they were friends from 
 that hour. 
 
 Even the sunlight looked more golden when 
 Beth stepped out into it that afternoon. Every- 
 tliing liad cauglit a tint from the pearly gates, 
 for that hour bad been a turning-point in her 
 life. She had found the secret of life — the 
 secret of putting self utterly into the back- 
 ground and living for others' happiness ; and 
 they who find that secret have the key to their 
 own happiness. The old tinge of gloom in her 
 grey eyes passed away, and, instead, there came 
 into them the warmth and light of a new life. 
 They seemed to reach out over the whole world 
 with tender sympathy, like *a deep, placid sea, 
 with the sunlight gilding its depths. 
 
86 
 
 BETH WOODBUUN. 
 
 " Beth, you are growing beautiful/' her fatlier 
 said to her one day ; and there were something 
 so reverential in his look that it touched her 
 too deeply to make her vain. 
 
 The four weeks that remained before the first 
 of October, when she was to return to college', 
 passed quickly. Clarence did not return, and 
 she heard that he had gone to England, intend- 
 ing to take his degree at Cambridge. The Ash- 
 leys, too, had left Briarstield, as Mr. Ashley had 
 secured a principalship east of Toronto. Betli 
 heard nothing more of Marie, though she would 
 so gladly have forgiven her now ! 
 
 Beth soon became (juite absorbed in her new- 
 friend, May Perth. She told her one day of 
 her fancy that her face looked like a lily-cuj). 
 Mrs. Perth only laughed and kissed her, in her 
 sweet, unconscious way. Beth always loved to 
 kiss May Pertli's brow ; it was so calm and 
 fair, it reminded her of the white breast of li 
 dove. 
 
 Just three or four days before Beth was to go 
 away, Aunt Prudence came into her room at a 
 time when she was alone. 
 
 " Did you ever see this picture that Arthur 
 left in his room wlien he went away last fall ^ " 
 slie asked. ' T don't know whether he did it 
 hiiuwr^'If or not.' 
 
THE HEAVENLY CANAAN. 
 
 87 
 
 She placed it in the light and left the room. 
 IVth reco(^nize<l it ahnost instantly. 
 
 " Why, it's that poem of mine that Arthur 
 liked best of all ! " she thought. 
 
 Yes, it was the very same — the grey rocks 
 rising one above another, the broad white shore, 
 and the lonely cottage, with the dark storm- 
 clouds lowering above it, and the fisherman's 
 l»nde «at the window, pale and anxious, her sunny 
 liiiir falling about her shoulders as she peered far 
 out across the sea — the black, storm-tossed sea — 
 ;uid far out among the billows the tiny speck of 
 sail that never reached the shore. Beth was no 
 connoisseur of art, but she knew the picture 
 before her was intensely beautiful, even sublime. 
 There was something in it that made her feel. 
 It moved her to tears even as Arthur's music 
 had done. No need to tell her both came from 
 tlie same hand. Besides, no one else had seen 
 tliat poem but Arthur. And Arthur could paint 
 like this, and yet she had said he had not an 
 artist soul. She sighed faintly. Poor Arthur ' 
 Perhaps, after all, she had been mistaken. And 
 she laid the picture carefully away among her 
 treasures. 
 
 Her last evenino; at home soon came. It was 
 a clear, chilly night, and thry had a fire in the 
 drawirig-room grate. It was so cosy to sit 
 
88 
 
 BETH WOODBURK. 
 
 there - itli her father, resting lier head on his 
 .slioulders, and watching the coals glowing in 
 the twilight. 
 
 " Beth, my child, you look so much happier 
 lately. Are you really so happy ? " he said, 
 after they had been talking for a while. 
 
 "Oh, I think life is so very happy!" said 
 Beth, in a buoyant tone. '* And when you love 
 Jesus it is so much sweeter, and somehow I like 
 everyone so much and everybody is so kind. 
 Oh, I think life is grand ! " 
 
 Dr. Woodburn w^as a godly man, and his 
 daughter's words thrilled him sweetly. He 
 brushed away a tear she did not see, and stooped 
 to kiss the young cheek resting on his coat- 
 sleeve. They were silent for a few moments. 
 
 " Beth, my dear," he said in a softer tone, 
 " Do vou know, I thoufdit that trouble last sum- 
 mer — over Clarence — was going to liurt you 
 more. How is it, Beth { " 
 
 She hesitated a moment. 
 
 " I don't believe I really loved him, father," 
 she said, in a quiet tone, " I thought I did. I 
 thought it was going to break my heart that 
 night I found out he loved Marie. But, some- 
 how, I don't mind. I think it is far better as it 
 is. Oh, daddy, dear, it's so nice I can tell you 
 things like this. I don't believe all girls can talk 
 
THE HEAVENLY (AX A AN. 
 
 89 
 
 to tlieii' fatliers this way. l^ut 1 — I always 
 wjinted to be loved — and Clarenci' was diHerent 
 from other people in Briar.sfield, you know, and 
 I suppose I thou<j^ht we were meant for each 
 other." 
 
 Dr. Woodlmrn did not answer at once. 
 
 " I don't think you would have been happy 
 with him, Beth," he sairl, ai'ter a little. "All 
 lias been for t! best. I was afraid you didn't 
 know what love meant when you became 
 cn^oifijed to him. It was only a school-j^irl's 
 fancy. 
 
 " Beth, I am ^i^oing to tell you somethinj^^" he 
 said a moment later, as he stroked her hair. 
 " People believe that I always took a special 
 interest in Arthur Grafton because his father 
 saved my life when we were boys, but that was 
 not the onl}^ reason I loved him. Years ago, 
 down along the Ottawa river, Lawrence (jrrafton 
 was pastor in the town where I had my first 
 practice. He was a grand fellow, and we were 
 the ofreatest friends. I used to take him to see 
 my patients often. He was just the one to cheer 
 them up. Poor fellow ! Let's see, it's seven- 
 teen years this fall since he died. It was the 
 tirst summer I was there, and Lawrence had 
 driven out into the country with me to see a 
 sick patient. When we were coming back, he 
 
90 
 
 |{KTH WOODBUUN'. 
 
 asked me to stop witli him at si farm-house, 
 wlieiv Hom(! memlxTs of his churcli lived. I 
 remember the pUice as if I had .seen it yesterday, 
 an old red ])rick 1>uildiii^', with honeysuckle 
 climbin<^^ about the poi'ch and cherry-trees on the 
 lawn. The front dooi' was open, and there was 
 a flit^ht of stairs ri^dit opposite, and while we 
 waited for an answer to the bell a beautiful 
 woman, tall and ^"raceful, paused at the head of 
 the stairs above us, and then came down. To 
 my eyes she was the most beautiful woman I 
 had ever seen, Beth. She was dressed in white, 
 and had a basket of flowers on herrr-a. She 
 smiled as she came towards us. He' air was 
 glossy-black, parted in the middle, a: laDing in 
 waves about her smooth white ^.' , liead ; but 
 lier eyes were her real beauty, I never saw any- 
 tliino- like them, Beth. They ',v'"ere such great, 
 dark, tender eyes. They seemed to have worlds 
 in them. It was not long before I loved Florence 
 Waldon. I loved her." His voice liad a strange, 
 deep pathos in it. " She was kind to me always, 
 but I hardly dared to hope, and one day I saw 
 her bidding good-bye to Lawrence. It was only 
 a look and a hand-clasp, but it was a revelation 
 to me. I kept silent about my love from that 
 hour, and one evening; Lawrence came to mv 
 rooms. 
 
THE HEAVENLY CANAAN'. 
 
 01 
 
 "Congratulate me, Arthur." he cried, in a 
 tojie that bubbled over with joy. I knew what 
 was coming, but the merciful twili;:;ht concealed 
 my face. ' Con<^ratulate me, Arthur! I am 
 (^n)ing to marry Florence Waldon next month, 
 and you must be best man.' 
 
 " I did congratulate him from tin; depth of my 
 heart, and I was best man at the we<lding: and 
 when their little son was born thev named him 
 Arthur after me. He is the Arthur Grafton 
 you have known. But poor Lawrence ! Little 
 Arthur w^as only a few Uionths old wlien she 
 took sick. They called me in, and I did all I 
 could to save her, but one night, as Lawrence 
 and I stood by her bedside — it was a wild March 
 night, and the wind was moaning through the 
 shutters while she slept — suddeidy she opened 
 her eyes with a bright look. 
 
 *"0h, Lawrence, listen, they are singing !' she 
 cried, 'it is so beautiful; I am going home — good- 
 bye — take care of Arthur,' and she was gone." 
 
 Dr. Woodburn paused a moment, and his 
 breath came faster. 
 
 " After that I came to Briarsfield and met 
 your mother, Beth. She seemed to understand 
 from my face that I had suffered, and after we 
 had become friends I told her that story, that I 
 had never told to mortal before or since till now. 
 
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 92 
 
 BETII WOODBURN. 
 
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 She was so very tender, and I saw in her face 
 that slie lovel nie, and by-and-by I took her to 
 wife, and she healed over tlie wound with lier 
 |(entle liands. She was a sweet woman, Betli. 
 God bless her memory. But the strange part of 
 the story is, Florence Waldon's brother, (Jartli 
 had settled on that farm over there, the other 
 side of the pine-wood. She had two other 
 brothers, one a talented editor in the States, the 
 other a successful lawyer. Garth, too, was a 
 bright, original fellow ; he had a high standard 
 of farm life, and he lived up to it. He was a 
 ^ood man and a truly refined one, and when 
 poor Lawrence died he left little Arthur — lie 
 was three years old then — to him. The dear 
 little fellow ; he looked so much like his mother. 
 He used to come and hold you in his arms when 
 you were in long dresses, and then, do you 
 remember a few years later, when your own 
 sweet mother died, how he came to comfort you 
 and filled your lap with flowers ? " 
 
 Yes, Beth remembered it all, and the tears 
 were running down her cheeks as she drooped 
 her head in silence. The door-bell broke the 
 stillness just then. Dr. Woodburn was wanted. 
 Bidding Beth a hasty but tender good-bye, he 
 hurried oft' at the call of duty. Beth sat gazing 
 at the coal-tire in silence after her father left. 
 
THE HEAVENLY CANAAN. 
 
 93 
 
 poor dear old fatliorl WImt a toucliiiif,' story 
 it was! He iimst have suffered so, and yet he 
 lia<l huried his sorrow and <^one about his work 
 with smiling face. Brave, heroic soul ! Beth 
 fell to picturing; it all over aj^ain with that 
 brilliant imagination of hers, until she seemed 
 to see the tall woman, with her Ix'autiful dark 
 t'ves and hair, coming down the stairs, just as he 
 had seen her. She seemed to hear the March 
 winds moan as he stepped out into the night 
 iind left the beautiful young wife, pale in death. 
 Then she went to the window and looked out at 
 the stars in the clear sky, and the meadow 
 tinged with the first frost of autuimi ; and the 
 pine-wood to the north, with the nuxm hanging 
 like a crescent of silver above it. It was there, 
 at that window, Arthur had asked her to be his 
 wife. Poor Arthur I She was glad her father 
 (lid not know. It would have pained him to 
 think she had refused the son of tlie woman he 
 had loved. 
 
 Beth lingered a little, gazing at the clear 
 frosty scene before her, then rose with a firm 
 look on her face and went n\) to her room. 
 There was one thing niore to be done before she 
 left home to-morrow. She ha«l resolved upon 
 it. It was dark in her room, but she neede<l no 
 light to recognize that roll of numusqript in hci* 
 
Pi 
 
 94 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 ?! I. 
 
 I 
 
 drawer. She hesitated a moment as she touched 
 it tenderly. Must she do it ? Yes, ah, yea : 
 Slje 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 some- 
 times 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 ! 
 
 ii -i 
 
 1 1 » 
 1 
 
VARSITY AGAIN. 
 
 95 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 'VARSITY AGAIN. 
 
 In a few days Betli was settled again at Mrs. 
 Owen's, on St. Mary's Street, and trippinfij to 
 her lectures as usual. Marie was not there, of 
 course, and Beth knew nothing of her where- 
 abouts. 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 appre- 
 ciated. 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' Volun- 
 teer Movement, and as this was her last year 
 at college, Beth thought sometimes a little sor- 
 rowfully of the following autumn when she was 
 to leave for India. 
 
96 
 
 BETH WOODBl RN. 
 
 w 
 
 Beth meant to have hor spend a few days at 
 Briarsfield with her next summer. But a ^ood 
 many things were to happen to Beth before tlie 
 next summer passed. A Victoria student was 
 occupying Marie's old room, ])ut as he took liis 
 meals out of the house Beth never even saw 
 him. One of the girls who saw him in the b.ali 
 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. 8he 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 iii the world ; but she would 
 have been surprised to hear how often they 
 remarked, ** Beth Woodburn is always so kind I" 
 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 
 
VARSITY AGAIN. 
 
 97 
 
 said. " You put a person up on a pedestal, and 
 then endow him with all the virtues under the 
 sun." ^ 
 
 A peculiar look crossed Heth's face. She 
 remembered one whom she had placed on the 
 jH'destal 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 friend- 
 ship, 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 
 Itefore. She was a little homesick for " daddy," 
 and to dispel her loneliness she shut up her 
 hooks and went to bed early. Her head had 
 scarcely touched the pillow when, hark ! there 
 was a sound of music in tlie 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 some- 
 liow. There was a succession of sweet, mellow 
 7 
 
 ■! 
 
 u 
 
98 
 
 BETH WOODIJURN. 
 
 \1' 
 
 • 1 
 
 notes at first ; tlien lii^her, higher, liiglier, 
 broader, deeper, fuller, it was bearing lier very 
 soul away ! Then sweeter, sol'ter, darker, tint 
 of gold and touch of shadow, the tears were 
 standing in her eyes ! Clearer again, and more 
 triumphant ! Her lips parted as slie 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. Michacl'H 
 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 slic 
 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 
 wnll. 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 
 
'varsity AfJAIX. 
 
 99 
 
 mighty effort and tore herself free. She took 
 the path on the other side of the road. It 
 was all quiet then', and she walked on slowly. 
 The darkness grew thicker, and she lost sight of 
 Arthur. Then the country hecanie (juite new to 
 her. There were bridges every little way — old 
 I'ickety bridges, that creaked beneath lier 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, 
 l»ow she wished Arthur were there ! Then sud- 
 denly 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. " P'oUow^ 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 path- 
 way, 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 
 
 
100 
 
 BETH WOODHURN. 
 
 did not look at her, hIic felt that he was think- 
 ing of her. Then suddenly the .strange faces 
 vanislied, 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 })ain, 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 " Heiglio ! Everybody 
 up ! Everybody up ! " This was a way he had 
 of waking the children in good time for break- 
 fast, 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 
 
VARSITY AOAIX. 
 
 101 
 
 cliurcli alone. It \va.s only three or four blocks 
 up to the Central, and Beth was never timid. 
 She did not look around tlu' churcli nuieh, or 
 she would have recoj^nized a familiar face on the 
 east side. It was Clarence May fair's; he was 
 paler than usual, and his li^ht curly hair looked 
 almost artificial in the j^asli^jht. There was 
 something sadder and more manly in his ex])res- 
 sion, and his eyes were fixed on Beth with a 
 reverent look. How pure she was, he thou«(ht, 
 how serene; her brow Uxjked as thou«^h an aui^^el- 
 hand had smoothed it in her shnnber. She 
 seemed to breathe a benediction on everythinj^ 
 around her ; she reminded him of an inuij^e 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 some- 
 thing about Marie that was Heeting, 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 
 
102 
 
 DKTII WO(>DHruN. 
 
 all, lui tlnm;^ht, tluit Murif had rufusccl his otfiT 
 of inan'ia;^f that morning Ik; roct'ive«l Beth's 
 note, and went to her in the heat of hi.s passion. 
 He was but a boy then, and yet it was only a 
 few months a<^o. What was it that hadchan^^tvl 
 him from boyhood to manhood so suddenly { 
 He di<l not try to answer the <iuestion, but oidy 
 felt conscious of the chanj^e within. He realized 
 now that he had never kncnvn what it meant to 
 love. Marie had shed her lustre on him as sin* 
 passed ; Beth he had never fully couiprehemled. 
 He ha<l a dim feelin<^ 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 tlie moonlight 
 outside, but she did not notice him till he was 
 right beside her. 
 
 " Clarence I " 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. 
 
y 
 
 VARSITY AOAIX. 
 
 103 
 
 l)('.si<leH, I tl»<)U«;Iit I woiiMn't liotlier HiiiHhin^ 
 iiiv eoursr. I am «loinir sonu' work ulouir the 
 jtninmli.stic liiu' at }>n'.sriit. I just canu* to 
 Toronto last nij^lit, ami intoml to loavc TiU'S<lay 
 or Wo<lm's<lay." 
 
 Ill tlir first inoinciit of licr surprise slie ha<l 
 forgotten everything exeept that Chirence was 
 an old friend from home; hut now, as lu? walked 
 I M 'side her, it all came hack like a Hash — tlie 
 memory of that ni^ht last sunniier when she 
 lia<l seen him last. She <^rew sud<U?nly silent 
 and emharrassed. She longed to ask him about 
 ^hirie; she wondered if they were en<^a^ed, and 
 if so where she was, but she soon controlled her- 
 self and asked him about his trip to England, 
 about his mother, about his work, about Editli 
 and everything else of possible or impossible 
 interest. She was relieved, without knowing 
 why, that it was only a few blocks to her 
 l)oarding-place. He lingered a moment as he 
 said good-night, an<l something in liis look 
 t(juched her a little. Only the stirring of old 
 memories. She hardly knc' whether she was 
 pleased or not to meet him again ; but as she 
 entered her room in the darkness her dream 
 seemed to flasli acro^3s her memory and a tender 
 voice said, " Follow me." 
 
 Clarence strolled a little way into the park, 
 
MM 
 
 104 
 
 BETH WOODIJUKX. 
 
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 i 
 1 
 
 'mm 
 
 
 ^^.B^^^^B 
 
 I 
 
 JIH 
 
 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 fandliar 
 voice startled him. It was Arthur (Jrafton ! 
 Clarence felt ill at ease for a moment, but 
 Arthur's tone was so kind it dispelled his em- 
 barrassment. 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 in- 
 tended. 
 
 But Arthur proceeded absently to the room 
 Marie had formerly occupied, without the slight- 
 est idea that Beth had lived in the house with 
 him nearly two months. It was strange, but 
 
'vARSltY AGAN. 
 
 105 
 
 tliough he had seen all the other girls in the 
 house he had never seen Beth. He had not en- 
 (jiiired her address the year before, not wishing 
 to know. He wished to have nothintr 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 suf- 
 fered 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 
 
p* 
 
 106 
 
 BETH WO«)DUUUN. 
 
 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 whicli 
 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 throw both arms about her old 
 friend tenderly, forgetting all the bitter 
 thoujjhts she had once had. 
 
VARSITY AGAIN. 
 
 107 
 
 "Oh, Marie, dear, I love you — I love you still, 
 or course I forgive you." 
 
 Then Beth told her all the story of the past, 
 and of that ni<^ht 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 iirailual 
 awakening to the fact th.it it was not love after 
 all. 
 
 " Then it wasn't Mr. Grafton at all who made 
 the trouble?" interrupttnl 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 mystilied, but Marie only con- 
 tinued in a softene<l tone : 
 
 '* I am afraid you don't know y(jur 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. 
 
108 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 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 some- 
 times 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." 
 
'varsity again. 
 
 109 
 
 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 
 May fair's promised wife ! She looked even 
 heautiful as she stood there in the light, with a 
 smile on her face and a pure white chrys- 
 anthemum 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 
 
 m 
 
 mi 
 
wm 
 
 ' 1 
 
 1 ■' 
 ' 1 
 
 m 
 
 110 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 street below. He noted it as we note all little 
 details in our nioinents of liigh excitement. 
 Then a smile jijradually lighted up his face. Oli, 
 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 Ijrow. 
 He rose and paced the room with a sort of 
 frenzied step. What is she to you — Clarence 
 Mayfair's prom i.' id wife? Arthur Grafton, 
 what is she to you ? Oh, that love, deep fand 
 passionate, that comes to us but once ! Tliat 
 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 — lilighted 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 for- 
 gotten — 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 ? Ev^en in that hour a 
 
VARSITY AGAIN. 
 
 Ill 
 
 holier radiance lighted his brow. Strong to 
 hear 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 (iod, 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 
 Itefore, as one might love the beings of another 
 world. His face was cjuite calm as he turned on 
 the light to resume his studies, but before begin- 
 ning 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 
 lie just remembered that a friend of his was 
 (roinff 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 roonj, Miss 
 Clayton ? " 
 
 " No, but I might find some one." 
 
112 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 " Mr. Grafton has moved out of his room for 
 some reason, I don't know what." 
 
 " Mr. — whom did yon 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 ea,ch 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. 
 
J)EATH. 
 
 113 
 
 CIIAITKR X. 
 
 DEA TIf. 
 
 we were 
 
 Chuistmas Eve, and Beth was lionie for her 
 two weeks' holidays. It was just after tea, and 
 slie and her father thouj^lit the parlor decidedly 
 cosy, with the curtains drawn and the candles 
 flaming among the holly over the mantel-piece. 
 1 1 seemed all the cosier because of the storm that 
 raged without. The sleet was beating against 
 the pane, and the win 1 came howling across the 
 Holds. 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 If^^^ ty be good, but you mustn't 
 8 
 
114 
 
 JJETII WOODIiUUN. 
 
 i 1 
 
 iind any fault. Just eat every bit of it down. 
 Oh, Kitty, stop ! " 
 
 They ha<l been crackintr 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 vour fall's work, Beth ; 
 hard study doesn't seen) 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 
 
DEATH. 
 
 115 
 
 of life and death, perhapH. 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 ! Wliat 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. 
 
 
116 
 
 IlKTII \V(MU)IUK\. 
 
 ■ \y. 
 
 " Ih your father out to-ni^lit, Betli ^ " uskcil 
 Miiy. 
 
 " Yes, lie went away out to the Browns'. But 
 wherever liave you been ;* " 
 
 " I've been taking some Cln-istnias things to a 
 poor family about two miles out ia the coun- 
 try, and I didn't think tlie storm so very bad 
 wlien I started; lait 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 wed- 
 dings. They are friends of ours, and we didn't 
 like to refuse. But it's mean, though," she con- 
 tinued, 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 hero 
 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." 
 
 i 
 
hKATH. 
 
 117 
 
 " Ei^^lit ! There, the clock just .struck. Father 
 ouj^ht to be hack. It was only a little after six 
 when he went out." 
 
 She looked anxiously at the drawn curtains, 
 hut the sleet beatin*^ harder and harder upon 
 the pane was her only answer. 
 
 " There he is now ! " she cried, as a step en- 
 tered the hall, and she rushed to meet him. 
 
 " Oh, <laddy, dear — why, father ! " 
 
 Her voice chan«^ed to wonder and fear. His 
 overcoat was go!ie and he seem :d a mass of ice 
 and snow. His beard was frozen toirether; his 
 breath came with a thick, husky sound, and he 
 looked so pale and exhausted. She led him to 
 the tire, and beiran 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 w^as only brokenly. 
 
 " Poor creatures ! She had nothing over her 
 hut 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 
 
118 
 
 liETIt WOODHUHN'. 
 
 trembled for its effect upon him. It went to 
 her heart to hear his liusky breathing as he sat 
 there trembling before the fire. They got him 
 to bed soon, and Aunt Prudence tramped througli 
 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 v/ind roared, and 
 the old shutter creaked uneasily. The husky 
 breathing continued by her side and the hours 
 
DEATH. 
 
 119 
 
 grew 
 
 longer. Oh, for tlie 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 
 hack 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 reproach- 
 fully. 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 eveninir, 
 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 Pru- 
 dence was to sit up that night. The dear old 
 housekeeper ! How kind she was, Beth thought. 
 She had often been amused at the (juaint, 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 
 
120 
 
 liKTII WOODJJUUN. 
 
 m 
 
 'm'? 
 
 she heard Dr. Mackay going clown 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 ? " slie asked, in a 
 hoarse whisper. 
 
 " I fear so, dear." 
 
 Beth wept long, and May let her grief have its 
 way for a while, tlien 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 liste* .d to the labored 
 breathing at her side. It was the last day of 
 the year that he raised his han<l and smoothed 
 her hair in his old-time way. 
 
nEATII. 
 
 121 
 
 " Beth, I am going home. You liave been a 
 good daughter — my one great joy. (Jod bless 
 you, my child." He paused a moment. " You 
 will have to teach, and I think you had better 
 ffo back to coUefje 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 brou<jht 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 w^ords, 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 heart- 
 
122 
 
 ftETII WOOIJBURN. 
 
 beats. 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 wdien 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 lialls, 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. 
 
i^EAtn. 
 
 12:^ 
 
 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 horae, 
 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. 
 
124 
 
 HETII WOoniU'HN. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 In the soft fliisli 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 lier at the station 
 just as the sun was setting, and there was a 
 curious smile on liis 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. 
 
LOVK. 
 
 1 25 
 
 " You naughty puss, why diilnt you tell me 
 when you wrote ?" 
 
 " Been keeping it to surprise you," said Mr. 
 Perth. " Handsome baby, isn't it ? J.ust like 
 her mother ! " 
 
 '* What are you going to call her ?" 
 
 " Beth." Aijd 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 cas^ its glories over the lake, 
 a great sheet of flame, softened by a w^rapping 
 of thin purplish cloud, like some lives, struggling. 
 
126 
 
 BETH VVOODHUllN. 
 
 Its? 
 
 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 re- 
 called those words before long. 
 
 Mr. Perth joined them just then. He was 
 going away for a week's holiday on the follow- 
 inff dav. 
 
 " 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. 
 
LOVE. 
 
 127 
 
 " I thought you were planning this," sjiid 
 Mr. Perth. 
 
 " Thouglit so ? How could you tell ? " asked 
 Beth. 
 
 " I saw it workiiifr 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. V^hy 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 Sunda}'. The first 
 sacred notes echocil softly down the aisles ; the 
 choir took their places ; then there was a 
 moment's solenui 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 indiffer- 
 ence, and looked at him intently. He seemed 
 changed, somehow; he was a trifle paler, but 
 there was a delicate fineness about him she had 
 
128 
 
 llETH WOODIUMIX. 
 
 I 
 
 
 never seen before, |)}irtieularly in liis eyes, u 
 mystery of pain and sweetness, ])len(l(!<l and 
 ripened into a more perfect manhood. Was 
 it because Arthur preached that sermon slie 
 thou<jjht it so i^a-and i No, everybody seemed 
 touclied. And this was the small boy who 
 had gone liazel-nutting witli lier, wdio liad 
 lieard lier geography, and, barefoot, carried 
 lier through the brook. But that was long, 
 long ago. They had changed since then. Be- 
 fore she realized it, the service was over, and 
 the people were streaming through the door- 
 way where Arthur stood shaking hands witli 
 the acquaintances of his childhood. There 
 was a soothed, calm expression on Bath's brow, 
 and her eyes met Arthur's as he touched her 
 hand. May thought she seemed a trifle sub- 
 dued 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 ; solenm 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 remem- 
 bered how she had once said Arthur had not an 
 
LOVE. 
 
 129 
 
 artist-soul. Was she mistaken ? Was lie one 
 of those men who bury their sentiments under 
 duties of every-day life ? Per- 
 
 men 
 practical 
 
 s so. 
 
 the 
 hapi 
 
 The next day she and May sat talking on the 
 sofa by the window. 
 
 " Don't you think, May, I should make a mis- 
 take if 1 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. 
 9 
 
130 
 
 BETH WOODIJUHN. 
 
 She walked past the dear old house on the hill- 
 top. The shutters were no longer closed ; last 
 sunniier'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 rosea 
 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, wdiere she used to go for the milk 
 every evening, when a firm step startled her. 
 
 " Arthur ! 
 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 
 
 Good evening. I'm so glad to see 
 
 t »> 
 
LOVE. 
 
 i:u 
 
 to its mate in the pine-wood yonder, and tlie 
 bleat of lambs in the diHtance. 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 
 Wesley an 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 1 Whatever made you 
 leave it, Arthur V 
 
 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 pass- 
 ing 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 
 
132 
 
 BETH WOODUUKX. 
 
 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 
 
LOVE. 
 
 133 
 
 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 
 light 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 dark- 
 ness — 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. 
 
 
 f , 
 
 M |V<^ 
 
 ^H'' 
 
 134 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 I forgot to wi my watch last night, and I 
 hadn't the fain ^, 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 I 
 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 ? " 
 
LOVE. 
 
 135 
 
 " 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 inter- 
 rupted, 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 I She 
 dared not look into his face as he touched her 
 hand coldly. 
 
 "Good-bye, Miss Woodburn. I wish you 
 every suocesu 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 ; tlie 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 
 
 it'i 
 
136 
 
 ftETH WOODBURN. 
 
 |i:--^1 
 
 mS 
 
 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 watchi/ig ; 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! An- 
 other year, and he would be gone far across the 
 seas, and then, "Good-bye, Arthur! Good-bye! 
 God be with you ! " 
 
PAHEWELt. 
 
 1.17 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 „ ; ^,1 
 
 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 
 
■' ! 
 
 138 
 
 BETH WOODBURN. 
 
 (^li 
 
 Pi' 
 
 ' ' ' 
 
 .! ! 
 
 1 ■> 
 
 
 m 
 
 
 If " 
 
 V > 
 
 £* si 
 
 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, 
 ' T.et me laugh with you, for life is sweet ; " to 
 ti. Oi.Towing, '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 
 
 11 1 
 
FAREWELL. 
 
 13d 
 
 vvoman s 
 
 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 s^hadow 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 
 
m- 
 
 140 
 
 ftETtt WOODBURN. 
 
 I* 
 
 :itM 
 
 '^1 
 
 III ': 
 
 lil' 
 
 X i -1 
 
 P: i 
 
 '.!:!'. 
 
 m\ 
 
 ■I! 
 
 J 
 
 i 
 
 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 — " 
 
FAREWELL. 
 
 141 
 
 " 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 betw^een 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 bless- 
 ing upon him as she knelt beside her bed. Just 
 
m. 
 
 
 ii ; 
 
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 liM ■ 
 
 ii 
 
 l^r ii 
 
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 1 f'A 
 
 * 
 
 
 1 
 
 142 
 
 liETH WOODBURN. 
 
 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 th^ 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 
 
FAREWELL. 
 
 143 
 
 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 Gren- 
 ville Street, where she was staying with her 
 friends, the Bar trams. Beth was, indeed, struck 
 by the change in lier 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 gentle- 
 ness 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 
 
WT 
 
 144 
 
 »ETH WOODHUKN. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ill 
 
 
 
 lilt ;, 
 
 ml 
 lit: 
 
 Marie us she lay witli closed eyes and a half 
 smile on her lips. 
 
 " Beth, you have heen so much . 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 con- 
 tinued, with a smile. " It was one Sunday ; I 
 had just read one of your letters, nd I felt 
 somehow that Jesus had touched I am 
 
 ready now. It was hard, so hard ac 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 mitst speak of it, Beth. I was treacherous 
 to you. But when you know what I suffered — " 
 
 p!;a; 
 
FAREWELL. 
 
 145 
 
 rl a half 
 
 me this 
 >t. You 
 \nd she 
 I, wasted 
 
 to pride 
 h failed 
 she con- 
 nday ; I 
 a I felt 
 I am 
 first, to 
 to say 
 
 she had 
 
 iday. I 
 iber the 
 een you 
 s friend 
 love to 
 
 ilk so," 
 
 ,cherous 
 ered— " 
 
 
 Her breath failed a^faiu for a moment. " I loved 
 him, Both," she whispered. 
 
 " Marie ! " There was silence for a moment, 
 broken only by Marie's labored breathinj^. " I 
 loved him, but I knew he did not love me. It 
 was only a fancy of his. I ha<l 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 ocn 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 lov^e 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 disappoint- 
 ment of the man she loved. 
 10 
 
 i 
 
PA 
 
 m 
 
 k 
 
 146 
 
 BETH WOODIiURN. 
 
 "I, 
 
 1.^ : 
 
 I"' 
 
 : ^S 
 
 f 
 
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 1 
 
 !, 
 
 
 " And you, Beth — are you liappy ? Does he 
 — Arthur, I mean — love you ? " slie 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 suii^mer 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 weak- 
 ness and exhaustion. 
 
 Beth went out for a few i:ours next morning, 
 and found her very much weaker when she 
 returned. Mrs. Bartram said she had tired her- 
 self 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. 
 
FAREWELL. 
 
 147 
 
 Does he 
 3(1, with 
 
 r before 
 >w. He 
 w days, 
 like the 
 She sat 
 arie lay 
 le loved 
 3 looked 
 text day 
 that he 
 
 a very 
 [lade no 
 weak- 
 
 loriiing, 
 len she 
 d her- 
 vake air 
 ind her 
 ir-way. 
 
 ■Ang. 
 J," said 
 
 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, Imt 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 mur- 
 mured faintly, then tlie heart-throbs beneath 
 Beth's ear were still ; the slender hand fell help- 
 
If ■ 
 
 IS' "^ 
 
 148 
 
 BETH VVOODBURN. 
 
 iii:", 
 
 less 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 h«d 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 <|uiet 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 flatter- 
 
FAREWELL. 
 
 149 
 
 iS were 
 
 she lay 
 [, single 
 ! She 
 ended, 
 r. She 
 ike and 
 ^d been 
 If —was 
 ie! 
 
 (uest of 
 
 it was 
 
 id died 
 
 father's 
 
 she left 
 
 Perth 
 
 ed the 
 
 at the 
 
 There 
 
 im she 
 
 I sought 
 
 luminer 
 
 ^e. 
 
 iolored 
 
 Beth's 
 
 for a 
 
 latter- 
 
 ing 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 un- 
 usual. 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 over- 
 head died away in tlie 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 
 
Hi 
 
 p. 
 
 fl: 
 
 If 
 
 150 
 
 BETH W(J()Di)UHN. 
 
 
 golden. Somehow it made lier think of Marie. 
 Poor Marie ! Why had Chirence's love for her 
 been unreal ? Why could she not have lived 
 an<l they been happy together ? Love and suf- 
 ferin"- ! And what had love broujjht to her i 
 Only pain. She thought of Arthur, too. Per- 
 haps 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 ol)served 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 ntranger 
 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." 
 
 li: 
 
Farewell. 
 
 151 
 
 : Marie. 
 
 for her 
 .e lived 
 ind suf- 
 to lier { 
 D. Per- 
 to have 
 • forget ! 
 good in 
 
 of fall 
 eless of 
 head as 
 )t know 
 } study 
 
 she ? " 
 Perth, 
 but she 
 She's 
 
 ^ranger 
 have 
 Iwithin 
 >ray of 
 jof the 
 Ing her 
 
 " Arthur ! Wliy, I — I thouglit you were in 
 Montreal ! " 
 
 " So, I was. I just got there a few days 
 ago, but I turned around and came hack to- 
 day to scold you for getting your feet wet 
 standing there in tlie wet grass. I knew you 
 didn't know liow 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 tliat 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 ? " 
 
f 
 
 15^ 
 
 BEtH WOODBUrN. 
 
 ■ I, 1 
 
 1; : 
 
 She seemed startled for a moment, as lie 
 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 knov I cared!" he exclaimed; then, 
 in a softer tone, " Beth, did you think I had for- 
 
 m 
 
Farewell. 
 
 ir)3 
 
 t, as he 
 
 I meant 
 e before 
 ou were 
 )nieho\v. 
 
 gently, 
 fore slie 
 sterday. 
 
 find nie 
 
 I silence, 
 1. Then 
 w much 
 I she — 
 re that 
 lother's 
 e, very 
 embled 
 id bent 
 His 
 are not 
 
 it you 
 
 ; then, 
 ad for- 
 
 gotten — 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 Ijreast he 
 drew her. Soul open to soul, heart beating 
 against heart ! Tlu' old clock ticked in the 
 stillness, and the crimso:. glow of tlie sunset 
 was reflected on the parlor wall. Oh, what joy 
 was this suddenly breaking through the clouds 
 upon them ! Beth was the lirst to break tlie 
 silence. 
 
 " Oh, Arthur, I love you so ! I love you so I " 
 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 woman- 
 hood. 
 
 ** But Arthur, why were you so cold and 
 strange that day we parted last sunmier ? " 
 
 " 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 coucli and gave thanks to the 
 all-loving Father who had guided their paths 
 together. 
 
 That night Beth lay listening as the autumn 
 
';■ 
 
 154 
 
 BETU WOODHURN. 
 
 wiii'l shook tlie elin-tree over the root' and 
 drifted the clouds in dark masses across the 
 starry sky. But tlie winds niiglit ra^^e witli- 
 out — aye, the storms mi^lit beat down, if they 
 would, what did it matter ^ Arthur was near, 
 and the Divine presence was ben<ling over her 
 with its shieldin*^ love. " Oh, God, Thou art 
 i^^oodl" She was happy — oh, so happy! And 
 she fell asleep with a smile on her face. 
 
 '^riie autunni passed — such a (gloriously happy 
 autunni — 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 lij'ht. A ^roup 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 beau- 
 tiful 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- 
 
FAREWELF. 
 
 00 
 
 Dot' and 
 'OSS the 
 •e witli- 
 if they 
 as near, 
 )ver lier 
 hou art 
 And 
 
 T 
 
 e. The 
 
 ^nd hills 
 
 I all was 
 
 prs were 
 
 ariosity, 
 
 1 were 
 
 y beau- 
 
 bridal 
 
 y still, 
 
 i voice ; 
 
 le face, 
 
 How 
 
 as the 
 
 Was 
 
 s about 
 
 med to 
 
 he had 
 
 , wave- 
 
 tossed soul that ho was ! A lo(»k of humiliation 
 crossed his face, then a look of hop<\ If he had 
 never been worthy of hei- han<l 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 woi'ds were said: tlui music 
 broke forth, and the little j;"old band o-leamed 
 on Beth's fair hand as it lay on Arthur's arm. 
 He led her down the aish;, smilin<^ an<l happy. 
 Oh, joy! joy everlastin<^ ! joy linkino- earth to 
 heaven ! They rested that ni^ht in IVth's old 
 room at the parsonaj^'e, and as the door closed 
 behind them they knelt tooether — 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 lon<jj white mound in the church- 
 yard. Poor Marie! He stooped and laid them 
 in the snow, the pure white snow — j)ure as the 
 dead whose <j^rave it covered ! ])ure 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 moonliofht of Palestine. And what have 
 
15G 
 
 IJETU WOODIJUllN'. 
 
 Ha!, 
 
 J, .. 
 
 the years brouolit to Pxitli ? Slic is famous now. 
 Hor novels a)'e anion<^ the most successFul of tlie 
 (lay. Slu; has marked out a new line of work, 
 and the dark-t^yed Jewish characters in her 
 stories have hroadened the symp.athies of he-r 
 world of readers. Hut the years have brou<»ht 
 her somethintr besides literary fame and success 
 in the mission-field. By her side is a little white 
 cot, and a little rosy-cheeked boy lies asleej) 
 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-ni<^ht since we were 
 married, Beth." 
 
 There are tears in her smilinj]^ eyes as she 
 looks up into his face. 
 
 " And you have never rejijretted ? ' 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 wdiat a silly, silly 
 girl I used to be when I thouoht 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 ha\'e suc- 
 ceeded as well as I have." 
 
 l< i ' 
 
 
FAREWELL. 
 
 I.i7 
 
 Ho only kisses her Tor n'|)ly, and they look 
 out over the Hat-roofcMl citv in tin; moonlicfht. 
 Peace ! peace ! sweet p(;ace I " Not as the world 
 f^ivcth, give I unto you." And the stars are 
 shining down upon them in their love. And so, 
 dear Hetli, farewell ! 
 
 The evening shadows lenixthen as T write, but 
 
 Oil ' 
 
 there is another to whom we nnist hid farewell. 
 Tt is Clarence. Father and mother are both 
 dead, and in one of the (]uiet parts of Toronto 
 he lives, unmarried, in his comfortable rooms. 
 'J'he 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 th(; human hearts 
 of liis 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 sug- 
 
r 
 
 I'i' 
 
 
 158 
 
 UETH WOODIIURN. 
 
 gestive of the beautiful, tlit; ideal. Soiiiotimes, 
 when the little ones |)layin<( 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 ('larence of long ago ; and 
 so farewell, brave heart — fare thee well ! 
 
 \'( ', 
 
omotimes, 
 
 him lisp 
 
 his eyes 
 
 Blcsserl 
 
 ^n^. No, 
 
 vorybody 
 
 i^^o ; and 
 
 1!