Beth Woodburn | Page 2

daisies, sunsets, rippling waters, love and sorrow, and all the infinite chords that vibrate in the human soul--she would weave them all with warp of gold. Oh, the world would see what was in her soul! She would be the bright particular star of Canadian literature; and then wealth would flow in, too, and she would fix up the old home. Dear old "daddy" should retire and have everything he wanted: and Aunt Prudence, on sweeping days, wouldn't mind moving "the trash," as she called her manuscripts. Daddy wouldn't make her go to bed at ten o'clock then; she would write all night if she choose; she would have a little room on purpose, and visitors at Briarsfield would pass by the old rough-cast house and point it out as Beth Woodburn's home, and--well, this is enough for a sample of Beth's daydreams. They were very exaggerated, perhaps, and a little selfish, too; but she was not a fully-developed woman yet, and the years were to bring sweeter fruit. She had, undoubtedly, the soul of genius, but genius takes years to unfold itself.
Then a soft expression crossed the face of the dreamer. She leaned back, her eyes closed and a light smile played about her lips. She was thinking of one who had encouraged her so earnestly--a tall, slender youth, with light curly hair, blue eyes and a fair, almost girlish, face--too fair and delicate for the ideal of most girls: but Beth admired its paleness and delicate features, and Clarence Mayfair had come to be often in her thoughts. She remembered quite well when the Mayfairs had moved into the neighborhood and taken possession of the fine old manor beside the lake, and she had become friends with the only daughter, Edith, at school, and then with Clarence. Clarence wrote such pretty little poems, too. This had been the foundation of their friendship, and, since their tastes and ambitions were so much alike, what if--
Her eyes grew brighter, and she almost fancied he was looking down into her face. Oh, those eyes--hush, maiden heart, be still. She smiled at the white cloud drifting westward--a little boat-shaped cloud, with two white figures in it, sailing in the summer blue. The breeze ruffled her dark hair. There fell a long shadow on the grass beside her.
"Clarence--Mr. Mayfair! I didn't see you coming. When did you get home?"
"Last night. I stayed in Toronto till the report of our 'exams' came out."
"I see you have been successful," she replied. "Allow me to congratulate you."
"Thank you. I hear you are coming to 'Varsity this fall, Miss Woodburn. Don't you think it quite an undertaking? I'm sure I wish you joy of the hard work."
"Why, I hope you are not wearying of your course in the middle of it, Mr. Mayfair. It is only two years till you will have your B.A."
"Two years' hard work, though; and, to tell the truth, a B.A. has lost its charms for me. I long to devote my life more fully to literature. That is my first ambition, you know, and I seem to be wasting so much time."
"You can hardly call time spent that way wasted," she answered. "You will write all the better for it by and by."
Then they plunged into one of their old-time literary talks of authors and books and ambitions. Beth loved these talks. There was no one else in Briarsfield she could discuss these matters with like Clarence. She was noticing meanwhile how much paler he looked than when she saw him last, but she admired him all the more. There are some women who love a man all the more for being delicate. It gives them better opportunities to display their womanly tenderness. Beth was one of these.
"By the way, I mustn't forget my errand," Clarence exclaimed after a long chat.
He handed her a dainty little note, an invitation to tea from his sister Edith. Beth accepted with pleasure. She blushed as he pressed her hand in farewell, and their eyes met. That look and touch of his went very deep--deeper than they should have gone, perhaps; but the years will tell their tale. She watched him going down the hill-side in the afternoon sunshine, then fell to dreaming again. What if, after all, she should not always stay alone with daddy? If someone else should come--And she began to picture another study where she should not have to write alone, but there should be two desks by the broad windows looking out on the lake, and somebody should--
"Beth! Beth! come and set the tea-table. My hands is full with them cherries."
Beth's dream was a little rudely broken by Mrs. Martin's voice, but she complacently rose and went into the house.
Mrs. Martin was a small grey-haired woman, very old-fashioned; a prim, good