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

Only in the last few weeks had she begun to see Clarence Mayfair as he really was. It was a wonderfully deep insight 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, wavering, fickle youth, with a good deal of fine sentiment, perhaps, but without firm, manly strength; ambitious, it

Mayfairs during her absence. She sighed as she thought of it all, and just then Dr. Woodburn came in and sat down on the couch beside her. They talked until t

, what is wrong betw

ere was something so very gentle in his look and voice that it disarm

t marry him. It would not be

troking her hair as she leaned upon his breas

im, smiling through her tears. "I'm not unhappy. I have so many things to think of, and I have always you,

tightly, and there were tears in his

ight as she lay in bed, and then slept, w

new minister, that Sunday. She had heard him before she went away. He had seemed such an energetic, wide-awake, inspiring

for a married woman. She had a great mass of light hair, drawn back plainly from a serenely fair forehead. The fashion became her well, for, in fact, the most striking thing about her face

t friends," thought Beth, after she had had an introd

ck 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 Bibl

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 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 refined and scholarly, but what of its doubts, its shadows, its sorrows without hope, 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 indecisio

t of life-the secret of putting self utterly into the background 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 pass

er one day; and there were something so reverential in

and she heard that he had gone to England, intending to take his degree at Cambridge. The Ashleys, too, had left Briarsfield, as Mr. A

ace looked like a lily-cup. Mrs. Perth only laughed and kissed her, in her sweet, unconscious way. Beth al

s to go away, Aunt Prudence came into

n his room when he went away last fall?" she aske

and left the room. Beth rec

mine that Arthur liked b

orm-tossed sea-and 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 nee

fire in the drawing-room grate. It was so cosy to sit there with her father, re

lately. Are you really so happy?" he sai

And when you love Jesus it is so much sweeter, and somehow I like ev

tly. He brushed away a tear she did not see, and stooped to kiss the you

know, I thought that trouble last summer-over Cla

itated

ut, somehow, 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 to their fat

did not ans

little. "All has been for the best. I was afraid you didn't know what lov

country with me to see a sick patient. When we were coming back, he asked me to stop with him at a farm-house, where some members of his church lived. I remember the place as if I had seen it yesterday, an old red brick building, with honeysuckle climbing about the porch and cherry-trees on the lawn. The front door was open, and there was a flight of stairs right opposite, and while we waited for an answer to the bell a beautiful woman, tall and graceful, 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 her arm.

w what was coming, but the merciful twilight concealed my face. 'Congratulate me,

afton you have known. But poor Lawrence! Little Arthur was only a few months old when she took sick. They called me in, and I did all I could to save her, but one night, as

cried, 'it is so beautiful; I am going home-g

a moment, and his

a sweet woman, Beth. God bless her memory. But the strange part of the story is, Florence Waldon's brother, Garth, 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

buried his sorrow and gone about his work with smiling face. Brave, heroic soul! Beth fell to picturing it all over again with that brilliant imagination of hers, until she seemed to see the tall woman, with her beautiful dark eyes 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 and left the beautiful young wife, pale in death. Th

derly. Must she do it? Yes, ah, yes! She could not publish that story now. Just then the picture of Arthur seemed to flash through her mind, reading it and tossing it down with that cold, silent look she had sometimes seen on his face. It was dark in the hall as she carried it down to the drawing-room grate. She crouched down on the hearth-rug before the coals, and a mo

his talent Thou hast given me and use it for T

sed it hath sealed her brow with a light such as martyrs wear in heaven. As for the world, oh, that every