Beth Woodburn

ugh in truth it has now advanced almost to the size and dignity of a town. Here, on the brow of the hill to the north of the village

even, and broken here and there by birch trees, spruces, and crazy clumps of rose-bushes, all in bloom. Altogether it was a sweet, home-like old place. The view to the south showed,

ure 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 impress

acter 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 compliments paid her. From a child her stories had filled columns in the Briarsfield Echo, and now she was eighteen she told herself she was ready to reach out into the great literary world-a nestling longing to soar. Yes, she would be famous-Beth Woodburn, of Briarsfield. 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 partic

e-too fair and delicate for the ideal of most girls: but Beth admired its paleness and delicate features, and Clarence Mayfair had come to be often in her thoughts. She remembered quite well when the Mayfairs had moved into the neighborhood and taken possession of the fine old

t, be still. She smiled at the white cloud drifting westward-a little boat-shaped cloud, with two white figures in

I didn't see you coming

Toronto till the report

ssful," she replied. "Allo

fall, Miss Woodburn. Don't you think it quite an un

urse in the middle of it, Mr. Mayfair. It is

ts charms for me. I long to devote my life more fully to literature. Tha

way wasted," she answered. "You will

ould discuss these matters with like Clarence. She was noticing meanwhile how much paler he looked than when she saw him last, but she admired him all the more. T

get my errand," Clarence e

per than they should have gone, perhaps; but the years will tell their tale. She watched him going down the hill-side in the afternoon sunshine, then fell to dreaming again. What if, after all, she should not always stay a

the tea-table. My hands is

n by Mrs. Martin's voice, but she comp

ttle sharp-tongued, a relic of bygone days of Canadian life. She had been Dr. Woodburn's h

air want?" asked the old lady with a f

ring an invitation

was proud of it was "dear daddy." He was a fine, broad-browed man, strikingly like Beth, but with hair silvery long before its time.

k tea with them, and as she talked over Briarsfield gossip to the doctor, Beth,

Mrs. Martin told you that young Arthur Graft

y, no!" said Beth w

y. He graduated this spring, you kno

Mayfair, now-a-days," put in Mrs. Martin. "He's been out there with

ather 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

ast the fragrant clover meadow and through the pine wood, with the fire-flies darting beneath the boughs. Some girls 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

-eyed boy. And what a hero he was to her when she fell over the bridge, and he rescued her! He used to get angry though sometimes. Dear, how he thrashed Sammie Jones for calling her a "little snip." Arthur was good, though, very good. He used to sit in that very bench where she was sitting, and explain the Sunday-school lesson to her, and say such good things. Her father had told her two o

f fresh milk on each arm,

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

rk-haired stranger talking to her father in the parlor. Sh

h, my old

thu

ed hands, the handsome dark-eyed man, the girl, in her white dress, h

ook at me as if I

're a man, now!" at which he laughed a me

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