If I had ten years more to live, I would give them all to see you both happy and united."

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

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

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

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

"No. He loved me once, the summer before I came to college, but he is changed now. He was in Briarsfield this summer for a few days, but I saw he was changed. He was not like the same Arthur--so changed and cold."

She sat with a grave look in her grey eyes as Marie lay watching her.

"Only once I thought he loved me," she continued; "one night when he looked at me and touched my hand. But the next day he was cold again, and I knew then that he didn't love me any more."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Put your hand upon my forehead, I shall die happier," she said, softly.

"Oh, Clarence, I loved you! I loved you! It can do no harm to tell you now. Kiss me just once. In a moment I shall be with my G.o.d."

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 hoa.r.s.e breathing.

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

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

Her friends thought it a strange request of hers to be buried at Briarsfield, but it was granted. Her vast wealth--as she had died childless--went, by the provisions of her father's will, to a distant cousin, but her jewels she left to Beth. The following afternoon Mr.

Perth read the funeral service, and they lowered the lovely burden in the shadow of the pines at the corner of the Briarsfield church-yard.

There in that quiet village she had first seen him she loved. After all her gay social life she sought its quiet at last, and the stars of that summer night looked down on her new-made grave.

The following day Mr. Perth laid a colored envelope from a large publishing firm in Beth's lap. They had accepted her last story for a good round sum, accompanied by most flattering words of encouragement.

As she read the commendatory words, she smiled at the thought of having at least one talent to use in her Master's service. Yes, Beth Woodburn of Briarsfield would be famous after all. It was no vain dream of her childhood.

Four weeks pa.s.sed and Beth had finished her preparations for returning to college in the fall. In a few weeks she would be leaving May and the dear old parsonage, but she would be glad to be back at 'Varsity again.

There came a day of heavy rain, and she went out on an errand of charity for May. When she returned, late in the afternoon, she heard Mr. Perth talking to someone in the study, but that was nothing unusual. The rain was just ceasing, and the sun suddenly broke through the clouds, filling all the west with glory. Beth went down into the garden to drink in the beauty. Rugged clouds stood out like hills of fire fringed with gold, and the great sea of purple and crimson overhead died away in the soft flush of the east, while the wet foliage of the trees and gardens shone like gold beneath the clouds. It was glorious! She had never seen anything like it before. Look! there were two clouds of flame parting about the sunset like a gateway into the beyond, and within all looked peaceful and golden. Somehow it made her think of Marie. Poor Marie!

Why had Clarence's love for her been unreal? Why could she not have lived and they been happy together? Love and suffering! And what had love brought to her? Only pain. She thought of Arthur, too. Perhaps he was happiest of all. He seemed to have forgotten. But she--ah, she could never forget! Yet, "Even so, Father, for so it seemed good in Thy sight." And she pulled a bunch of fall flowers from the bush at her side, careless of the rain-drops that shook on her bare head as she touched the branches. She did not know that she was being observed from the study window.

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

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

"Yes, she is very n.o.ble," said the stranger slowly, as he looked at her.

She would have recognized his voice if she had been within hearing, but she only pulled another spray of blossoms, without heeding the sound of the study door shutting and a step approaching her on the gravelled walk.

"Beth."

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

"So, I was. I just got there a few days ago, but I turned around and came back to-day to scold you for getting your feet wet standing there in the wet gra.s.s. I knew you didn't know how to take care of yourself."

There was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Didn't I always take care of you when you were little?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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