But the strain had been too much for her, and she was quite ill all the next day.  She lay listening to the strange footsteps coming and going in the halls, for everyone came to take a last look at one whom all loved and honored.  There was the old woman whom he had helped and encouraged, hobbling on her cane to give him a last look and blessing; there was the poor man whose children he had attended free of charge, the hand of whose dying boy he had held; there was the little ragged girl, who looked up through her tears and said, “He was good to me.”  Then came the saddest moment Beth had ever known, when they led her down for the last time to his side.  She scarcely saw the crowded room, the flowers that were strewn everywhere.

It was all over.  The last words were said, and they led her out to the carriage.  The sun was low in the west that afternoon when the Perths took her to the parsonage—­“home to the parsonage,” as she always said after that.  Aunt Prudence came to bid her good-bye before she went away to live with her married son, and Beth never realized before how much she loved the dear old creature who had watched over her from her childhood.  Just once before she returned to college she went back to look at the old home, with its shutters closed and the snow-drifts on its walks.  She had thought her future was to be spent there, and now where would her path be guided?

“Thou knowest, Lord,” she said faintly.

CHAPTER XI.

LOVE.

In the soft flush of the following spring Beth returned to the parsonage at Briarsfield.  It was so nice to see the open country again after the city streets.  Mr. Perth met her at the station just as the sun was setting, and there was a curious smile on his face.  He was a little silent on the way home, as if he had something on his mind; but evidently it was nothing unpleasant.  The parsonage seemed hidden among the apple-blossoms, and Mrs. Perth came down the walk to meet them, looking so fair and smiling, and why—­she had something white in her arms!  Beth bounded forward to meet her.

“Why, May, where did you—­whose baby?” asked Beth, breathless and smiling.

“Who does she look like?”

The likeness to May Perth on the little one-month-old face was unmistakable.

“You naughty puss, why didn’t you tell me when you wrote?”

“Been keeping it to surprise you,” said Mr. Perth.  “Handsome baby, isn’t it?  Just like her mother!”

“What are you going to call her?”

“Beth.”  And May kissed her fondly as she led her in.

What a pleasant week that was!  Life may be somewhat desert-like, but there is many a sweet little oasis where we can rest in the shade by the rippling water, with the flowers and the birds about us.

One afternoon Beth went out for a stroll by herself down toward the lake, and past the old Mayfair home.  The family were still in Europe, and the place, she heard, was to be sold.  The afternoon sunshine was beating on the closed shutters, the grass was knee-deep on the lawn and terraces, and the weeds grew tall in the flower-beds.  Deserted and silent!  Silent as that past she had buried in her soul.  Silent as those first throbs of her child-heart that she had once fancied meant love.