!" exclaimed Mrs. Perth.

"I thought you were planning this," said Mr. Perth.

"Thought so? How could you tell?" asked Beth.

"I saw it working in your mind. You are easily read. Where are you
going?"

"I haven't decided yet. I only just decided to go lately--one Sunday
afternoon this spring. I used to hate the idea."

Perhaps it was this little talk that made her think of Arthur again that
night. Why had he never sent her one line, one word of sympathy in her
sorrow? He was very unkind, when her father had loved him so. Was that
what love meant?

The supply did not stay at the parsonage, and Beth did not even ask his
name, as she supposed it would be unfamiliar to her. The old church
seemed so home-like that Sunday. The first sacred notes echoed softly
down the aisles; the choir took their places; then there was a moment's
solemn hush,--and Arthur! Why, that was Arthur going up into the pulpit!
She could hardly repress a cry of surprise. For the moment she forgot
all her coldness and indifference, and looked at him intently. He seemed
changed, somehow; he was a trifle paler, but there was a delicate
fineness about him she had never seen before, particularly in his eyes,
a mystery of pain and sweetness, blended and ripened into a more perfect
manhood. Was it because Arthur preached that sermon she thought it so
grand? No, everybody seemed touched. And this was the small boy who had
gone hazel-nutting with her, who had heard her geography, and, barefoot,
carried her through the brook. But that was long, long ago. They had
changed since then. Before she realized it, the service was over, and
the people were streaming through the door-way where Arthur stood
shaking hands with the acquaintances of his childhood. There was a
soothed, calm expression on Beth's brow, and her eyes met Arthur's as he
touched her hand. May thought she seemed a trifle subdued that day,
especially toward evening. Beth had a sort of feeling that night that
she would have been content to sit there at the church window for all
time. There was a border of white lilies about the altar, a sprinkling
of early stars in the evening sky; solemn hush and sacred music within,
and the cry of some stray night-bird without. There were gems of poetry
in that sermon, too; little gleanings from nature here and there. Then
she remembered how she had once said Arthur had not an artist-soul. Was
she mistaken? Was he one of those men who bury their sentiments unde