of men—­mingled with them to do them good.  And Beth’s heart cried out within her, only to do something in this great, weary world—­something to uplift, to ennoble men, to raise the lowly, to feed and to clothe the uncared for, to brighten the millions of homes, to lift men—­she knew not where.  This cry in Beth’s heart was often heard after that—­to be great, to do something for others.  She was growing weary of the narrow boundaries of self.  She would do good, but she knew not how.  She heard a hungry world crying at her feet, but she had not the bread they craved.  Poor, blinded bird, beating against the bars of heaven!  Clarence never seemed to understand her in those moods:  he had no sympathy with them.  Alas, he had never known Beth Woodburn; he had understood her intellectual nature, but he had never sounded the depths of her womanly soul.  He did not know she had a heart large enough to embrace the whole world, when once it was opened.  Poor, weak, blinded Clarence!  She was as much stronger than he, as the star is greater than the moth that flutters towards it.

CHAPTER VII.

ENDED.

June was almost over, and Beth had been home a full month on that long four months’ vacation that university students are privileged to enjoy.  She was very ambitious when she came home that first vacation.  She had conceived a fresh ideal of womanhood, a woman not only brilliantly educated and accomplished, but also a gentle queen of the home, one who thoroughly understood the work of her home.  Clarence was quite pleased when she began to extol cooking as an art, and Dr. Woodburn looked through the open kitchen-door with a smile at his daughter hidden behind a clean white apron and absorbed in the mysteries of the pastry board.  Aunt Prudence was a little astonished, but she never would approve of Beth’s way of doing things—­“didn’t see the sense of a note-book and lead-pencil.”  But Beth knew what she was doing in that respect.

Then there were so many books that Beth intended to read in that vacation!  Marie had come to the Mayfair’s, too, and helped her to pass some pleasant hours.  But there was something else that was holding Beth’s attention.  It was Saturday evening, and that story was almost finished, that story on which she had built so many hopes.  She sat in her room with the great pile of written sheets before her, almost finished; but her head was weary, and she did not feel equal to writing the closing scene that night.  She wanted it to be the most touching scene of all, and so it had to be rolled up for another week.  Just then the door-bell rang and Mrs. Ashley was announced, our old friend Edith Mayfair, the same sweet, fair girl under another name.

They sat down by the window and had a long chat.

“Have you seen the new minister and his wife yet?” asked Edith.

“No; I heard he was going to preach to-morrow.”