e faithful, Beth," he said, looking graver. Then he talked
steadily of things in which neither of them had any interest. How cold
and unnatural it all was! Beth longed to give way to tears. In a few
minutes he rose to go. He was going! Arthur was going! She dared not
look into his face as he touched her hand coldly.

"Good-bye, Miss Woodburn. I wish you every success next winter."

She went back to the parlor and watched him--under the apple trees,
white with blossom, through the gate, past the old church, around the
corner--he was gone! The clock ticked away in the long, silent parlor;
the sunshine slept on the grass outside; the butterflies were flitting
from flower to flower, and laughing voices passed in the street, but her
heart was strangely still. A numb, voiceless pain! What did it mean?
Had Arthur changed? Once he had loved her. "God have pity!" her white
lips murmured. And yet that look, that touch last night--what did it
mean? What folly after all! A touch, a smile, and she had woven her fond
hopes together. Foolish woman-heart, building her palace on the sands
for next day's tide to sweep away! Yet how happy she had been last
night! A thrill, a throb, a dream of bliss; crushed now, all but the
memory! The years might bury it all in silence, but she could never,
never forget. She had laid her plans for life, sweet, unselfish plans
for uplifting human lives. Strange lands, strange scenes, strange faces
would surround her. She would toil and smile on others, "but oh, Arthur,
Arthur--"

All through the long hours of that night she lay watching; she could not
sleep. Arthur was still near, the same hills surrounding them both. The
stars were shining and the hoarse whistle of the steamers rent the
night. Perhaps they would never be so near again. Would they ever meet,
she wondered. Perhaps not! Another year, and he would be gone far across
the seas, and then, "Good-bye, Arthur! Good-bye! God be with you!"

CHAPTER XII.

_FAREWELL._

Beth's summer at Briarsfield parsonage passed quietly and sweetly. She
had seemed a little sad at first, and May, with her woman's instinct,
read more of her story than she thought, but she said nothing, though
she doubled her little loving attentions. The love of woman for woman is
passing sweet.

But let us look at Beth as she sits in the shadow of the trees in the
parsonage garden. It was late in August, and Beth was waiting for May to
come out. Do you remember the fi