Beth Woodburn | Page 2

she was ready to reach out into the
great literary world--a nestling longing to soar. Yes, she would be
famous--Beth Woodburn, of Briarsfield. She was sure of it. She would
write novels; oh, such grand novels! She would drink from the very
depths of nature and human life. The stars, the 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,