Beth was lying in the hammock, watching the white clouds chase each other over the sky. Her face was quite unclouded, though the morning had not pa.s.sed 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," and she put both arms about his neck. "I am in love, truly. Believe me, I shall be happy."

"Clarence is delicate, too," said her father with a grave look.

They 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 college course, Beth."

They were silent again for a moment.

"Well, G.o.d 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 enthusiastic over the change in her life. Aunt Prudence had been told before dinner, and she had taken it in a provokingly quiet fashion that perplexed Beth. What 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 pa.s.sed off her brow, for, after all, matters were about 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 had given him several copies of the Briarsfield _Echo_, and he was still reading. In spite of her thoughts of Clarence, she wondered now and again what Arthur would think of her. Would he be proud of his old play-mate? 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 sentimental 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 command of language and flowing style you might bring before your reader such sweet little homes and bright faces and sunny hearts, and that is the sweetest 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 before her. Stern critic! Somehow he didn't seem just like the old Arthur.

"I don't like him any more," she thought. "He isn't like his old self."

But somehow she could not help respecting him as she looked at him sitting there with that great wave of dark hair brushed back from his brow, and his soulful eyes fixed on something in s.p.a.ce. 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 change 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 place."

"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 with the hours, Beth, but the blue sky stands firm throughout all time."

She caught sight of Clarence coming as he was speaking, 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 mustn'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 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 west. You were always fond of watching the sun set, Beth. But you must come and look at them. Let's see, to-day's Sat.u.r.day. 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. My mother has asked her here for a few weeks."

"Isn't it a striking name?" said Beth, "Marie de Vere, pretty, too. I wonder what she will be like."

"I hope you will like her, Beth. She makes her home in Toronto, and it would 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 quite often then. Only I hate to have you study so hard."

"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 Woodburn household was at church quite early, and Beth sat gazing out of the window at the parsonage across the road. It was so home-like--a great square old brick, with a group of hollyhocks beside the study window.

The services that day seemed unusually sweet, particularly the Sunday-school hour. Beth's attention wandered from the lesson once or twice, and she noticed Arthur in the opposite corner teaching a cla.s.s of little girls--little tots in white dresses. He looked so pleased and self-forgetful. Beth had 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 quite a grandfather, only minus the grey hair."

It was beautiful walking home that afternoon in the light June breeze.

She wondered what Clarence was doing just then. Home looked so sweet and pleasant, too, as she opened the gate, and she thought how sorry she should be to leave it to go to college in the fall.