She knew Clarence was likely to be in the library, and so went around to the south side.  The library window was quite close to the door of the side hall, and as Beth came up the terrace, through the open window a picture met her eyes that held her spell-bound.

Clarence and Marie were sitting side by side on the sofa, a few feet from the window.  Marie’s dark face was drooping slightly, her cheeks flushed, and her lips just parted in a smile.  There was a picture of the Crucifixion on the wall above them, and rich violet curtains hanging to one side.  One of Marie’s slender olive hands rested on the crimson cushions at her side, the other Clarence was stroking with a tender touch.  Both were silent for a moment.  Then Clarence spoke in a soft, low tone: 

“Marie, I want to tell you something.”

“Do you?  Then tell me.”

“I don’t like to say it,” he answered.

“Yes, do.  Tell me.”

“If I were not an engaged man,”—­his voice seemed to tremble faintly, and his face grew paler—­“I should try and win you for my wife.”

Beth drew back a step, her young cheek colorless as death.  No cry escaped her white lips, but her heart almost ceased its beating.  It was only a moment she stood there, but it seemed like years.  The dark, blushing girl, the weak, fair-haired youth in whom she had placed her trust, the pictures, the cushions, the curtains, every detail of the scene, seemed printed with fire upon her soul.  She was stung.  She had put her lips to the cup of bitterness, and her face looked wild and haggard as she turned away.

Only the stars above and the night wind sighing in the leaves, and a heart benumbed with pain!  A tall man passed her in the shadow of the trees as she was crossing the lawn, but she paid no heed.  The lights in the village homes were going out one by one as she returned up the dark, deserted street.  The moon emerged from the clouds, and filled her room with a flood of unnatural light just as she entered.  She threw herself upon her pillow, and a cry of pain went up from her wounded heart.  She started the next instant in fear lest some one had heard.  But no, there was no one near here, save that loving One who hears every moan; and Beth had not learned yet that He can lull every sufferer to rest in His bosom.  The house was perfectly still, and she lay there in the darkness and silence, no line changing in the rigid marble of her face.  She heard her father’s step pass by in the hall; then the old clock struck out the midnight hour, and still she lay in that stupor with drops of cold perspiration on her brow.

Suddenly a change came over her.  Her cheeks grew paler still, but her eyes burned.  She rose and paced the room, with quick, agitated steps.

“Traitress!  Traitress!” she almost hissed through her white lips.  “It is her fault.  It is her fault.  And I called her friend.  Friend!  Treachery!”