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 Mayfair's promised
wife! She looked even beautiful as she stood there in the light, with a
smile on her face and a pure white chrysanthemum 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
street below. He noted it as we note all little details in our moments
of high excitement. Then a smile gradually lighted up his face. Oh,
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 brow. He rose and paced the room
with a sort of frenzied step. What is she to you--Clarence Mayfair's
promised wife? Arthur Grafton, what is she to you? Oh, that love, deep
and passionate, that comes to us but once! That 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--blighted 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
forgotten--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? Even in
that hour a holier radiance lighted his brow. Strong to bear the
burdens and sorrows of others, he had learned to cast all his c