“It is my Father’s will,” he said with a sweeter, graver smile.

“Beth, do you not see how your talent could be used in the mission field?”

“He does not know I am going to marry Clarence,” she thought with a smile, “and he is going to map out a life work for a maiden lady.”

“No, I don’t see how,” she answered.

“You know there is a large proportion of the world that never read such a thing as a missionary book, and that if more such books were read, missions would be better supported.  Now, if someone with bright talents were to write fascinating stories of Arabian life or life in Palestine, see how much interest would be aroused.  But then you would need to live among the people and know their lives, and who would know them so well as a missionary?”

Beth smiled at his earnestness.

“Oh, no, Arthur; I couldn’t do that.”

His eyes filled in a moment with a sad, pleading look.

“Beth, can you refuse longer to surrender your life and your life’s toil?  Look, Beth,” he said, pointing upward to the picture of Christ upon the wall, “can you refuse Him—­can you refuse, Beth?”

“Oh, Arthur, don’t,” she said drooping her face.

“But I must, Beth!  Will you enter your Father’s service?  Once again I ask you.”

Her eyes were turned away and she answered nothing.

“Beth,” he said softly, “I have a more selfish reason for urging you—­for I love you, Beth.  I have loved you since we were children together.  Will you be my own—­my wife?  It is a holy service I ask you to share.  Are you ready, Beth?”

Her pale face was hidden in her hands.  He touched her hair reverently.  Tick! tick! tick! from the old clock in the silence.  Then a crimson flush, and she rose with sudden violence.

“Oh, Arthur, what can you mean?  I thought—­you seemed my brother almost—­I thought you would always be that.  Oh, Arthur!  Arthur! how can you—­how dare you talk so?  I am Clarence Mayfair’s promised wife.”

“Clarence Mayfair’s—­” The words died away on his white lips.  He leaned upon the mantel-piece, and Beth stood with her grey eyes fixed.  His face was so deathly white.  His eyes were shaded by his hand, and his brow bore the marks of strong agony.  Oh, he was wounded!  Those moments were awful in their silence.  The darkness deepened in the old parlor.  There was a sound of voices passing in the street.  The church bell broke the stillness.  Softly the old calm crept over his brow, and he raised his face and looked at her with those great dark eyes—­eyes of unfathomable tenderness and impenetrable fire, and she felt that her very soul stood naked before him.  She trembled and sank on the couch at her side.  His look was infinitely tender as he came toward her.

“I have hurt you—­forgive me,” he said gently, and he laid his hand on her head so reverently for a moment.  His white lips murmured something, but she only caught the last words, “God bless you—­forever.  Good-bye, Beth—­little Beth.”