Her last evening at home soon came.  It was a clear, chilly night, and they had a fire in the drawing-room grate.  It was so cosy to sit there with her father, resting her head on his shoulders, and watching the coals glowing in the twilight.

“Beth, my child, you look so much happier lately.  Are you really so happy?” he said, after they had been talking for a while.

“Oh, I think life is so very happy!” said Beth, in a buoyant tone.  “And when you love Jesus it is so much sweeter, and somehow I like everyone so much and everybody is so kind.  Oh, I think life is grand!”

Dr. Woodburn was a godly man, and his daughter’s words thrilled him sweetly.  He brushed away a tear she did not see, and stooped to kiss the young cheek resting on his coat-sleeve.  They were silent for a few moments.

“Beth, my dear,” he said in a softer tone, “Do you know, I thought that trouble last summer—­over Clarence—­was going to hurt you more.  How is it, Beth?”

She hesitated a moment.

“I don’t believe I really loved him, father,” she said, in a quiet tone, “I thought I did.  I thought it was going to break my heart that night I found out he loved Marie.  But, somehow, I don’t mind.  I think it is far better as it is.  Oh, daddy, dear, it’s so nice I can tell you things like this.  I don’t believe all girls can talk to their fathers this way.  But I—­I always wanted to be loved—­and Clarence was different from other people in Briarsfield, you know, and I suppose I thought we were meant for each other.”

Dr. Woodburn did not answer at once.

“I don’t think you would have been happy with him, Beth,” he said, after a little.  “All has been for the best.  I was afraid you didn’t know what love meant when you became engaged to him.  It was only a school-girl’s fancy.”

“Beth, I am going to tell you something,” he said a moment later, as he stroked her hair.  “People believe that I always took a special interest in Arthur Grafton because his father saved my life when we were boys, but that was not the only reason I loved him.  Years ago, down along the Ottawa river, Lawrence Grafton was pastor in the town where I had my first practice.  He was a grand fellow, and we were the greatest friends.  I used to take him to see my patients often.  He was just the one to cheer them up.  Poor fellow!  Let’s see, it’s seventeen years this fall since he died.  It was the first summer I was there, and Lawrence had driven out into the country with me to see a sick patient.  When we were coming back, he asked me to stop with him at a farm-house, where some members of his church lived.  I remember the place as if I had seen it yesterday, an old red brick building, with honeysuckle climbing about the porch and cherry-trees on the lawn.  The front door was open, and there was a flight of stairs right opposite, and while we waited for an answer to the bell a beautiful woman, tall and graceful, paused at