Beth Woodburn

Beth Woodburn

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Beth Woodburn, by Maud Petitt This
eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
eBook or online at www.gutenberg.net
Title: Beth Woodburn
Author: Maud Petitt
Release Date: July 22, 2005 [EBook #16343]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BETH
WOODBURN ***

Produced by Early Canadiana Online, Robert Cicconetti, Martin Pettit
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net

BETH WOODBURN.
BY
MAUD PETITT.
TORONTO: WILLIAM BRIGGS, 29-33 RICHMOND STREET
WEST. MONTREAL: C.W. COATES. HALIFAX: S.F. HUESTIS.
1897.

ENTERED according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year
one thousand eight hundred and ninety-seven, by WILLIAM BRIGGS,
at the Department of Agriculture.

To my mother
THIS MY FIRST BOOK
IS LOVINGLY
DEDICATED.

CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE Beth at Eighteen 9
CHAPTER II.
A Dream of Life 21
CHAPTER III.
Whither, Beth? 30
CHAPTER IV.
Marie 42
CHAPTER V.
"For I Love You, Beth" 47

CHAPTER VI.
'Varsity 55
CHAPTER VII.
Ended 64
CHAPTER VIII.
The Heavenly Canaan 78
CHAPTER IX.
'Varsity Again 95
CHAPTER X.
Death 113
CHAPTER XI.
Love 124
CHAPTER XII.
Farewell 137

BETH WOODBURN.
CHAPTER I.
_BETH AT EIGHTEEN._
In the good old county of Norfolk, close to the shore of Lake Erie, lies
the pretty village of Briarsfield. A village I call it, though in truth it has

now advanced almost to the size and dignity of a town. Here, on the
brow of the hill to the north of the village (rather a retired spot, one
would say, for so busy a man), at the time of which my story treats,
stood the residence of Dr. Woodburn.
It was a long, old-fashioned rough-cast house facing the east, with great
wide windows on each side of the door and a veranda all the way
across the front. The big lawn was quite uneven, and broken here and
there by birch trees, spruces, and crazy clumps of rose-bushes, all in
bloom. Altogether it was a sweet, home-like old place. The view to the
south showed, over the village roofs on the hill-side, the blue of Lake
Erie outlined against the sky, while to the north stretched the open,
undulating country, so often seen in Western Ontario.
One warm June afternoon Beth, the doctor's only daughter, was
lounging in an attitude more careless than graceful under a birch tree.
She, her father and Mrs. Margin, the housekeeper--familiarly known as
Aunt Prudence--formed the whole household. Beth was a little above
the average height, a girlish figure, with a trifle of that awkwardness
one sometimes meets in an immature girl of eighteen; a face, not what
most people would call pretty, but still having a fair share of beauty.
Her features were, perhaps, a little too strongly outlined, but the brow
was fair as a lily, and from it the great mass of dark hair was drawn
back in a pleasing way. But her eyes--those earnest, grey eyes--were
the most impressive of all in her unusually impressive face. They were
such searching eyes, as though she had stood on the brink scanning the
very Infinite, and yet with a certain baffled look in them as of one who
had gazed far out, but failed to pierce the gloom--a beaten, longing look.
But a careless observer might have dwelt longer on the affectionate
expression about her lips--a half-childish, half-womanly tenderness.
Beth was in one of her dreamy moods that afternoon. She was gazing
away towards the north, her favorite view. She sometimes said it was
prettier than the lake view. The hill on which their house stood sloped
abruptly down, and a meadow, pink with clover, stretched far away to
rise again in a smaller hill skirted with a bluish line of pines. There was
a single cottage on the opposite side of the meadow, with white blinds

and a row of sun-flowers along the wall; but Beth was not absorbed in
the view, and gave no heed to the book beside her. She was dreaming.
She had just been reading the life of George Eliot, her favorite author,
and the book lay open at her picture. She had begun to love George
Eliot like a personal friend; she was her ideal, her model, for Beth had
some repute as a literary character in Briarsfield. Not a teacher in the
village school but had marked her strong literary powers, and she was
not at all slow to believe all the hopeful compliments paid her. From a
child her stories had filled columns in the Briarsfield Echo, and now
she was eighteen she told herself