for, after
all, matters were about as they were before. The morning had been rather
pleasant, too. Arthur had played some of his sweet old pieces, and then
asked as a return favor to see some of her writing. She had given him
several copies of the Briarsfield _Echo_, and he was still reading. In
spite of her thoughts of Clarence, she wondered now and again what
Arthur would think of her. Would he be proud of his old play-mate? He
came across the lawn at last and drew one of the chairs up beside the
hammock.

"I have read them all, Beth, and I suppose I should be proud of you. You
are talented--indeed, you are more than talented: you are a genius, I
believe. But do you know, Beth, I do not like your writings?"

He looked at her as if it pained him to utter these words.

"They are too gloomy. There is a sentimental gloom about everything you
write. I don't know what the years since we parted have brought you,
Beth, but your writings don't seem to come from a full heart,
overflowing with happiness. It seems to me that with your command of
language and flowing style you might bring before your reader such sweet
little homes and bright faces and sunny hearts, and that is the sweetest
mission a writer has, I believe."

Beth watched him silently. She had not expected this from Arthur. She
thought he would overwhelm her with praise; and, instead, he sat there
like a judge laying all her faults before her. Stern critic! Somehow he
didn't seem just like the old Arthur.

"I don't like him any more," she thought. "He isn't like his old self."

But somehow she could not help respecting him as she looked at him
sitting there with that great wave of dark hair brushed back from his
brow, and his soulful eyes fixed on something in space. He looked a
little sad, too.

"Still, he isn't a writer like Clarence," she thought, "and he doesn't
know how to praise like Clarence does."

"But Arthur," she said, finally speaking her thoughts aloud; "you speak
as though I could change my way of writing merely by resolving to. I can
write only as nature allows."

"That's too sentimental, Beth; just like your writing. You are a little
bit visionary."

"But there are gloomy and visionary writers as well as cheerful ones.
Both have their place."

"I do not believe, Beth, that gloom has a place in this bright earth of
ours. Sadness and sorrow will come, but there is sweetness in the cup as
well. The clouds drift by with the hours, Beth, bu