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 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.”