That evening she and May sat by the window watching the sunset cast its glories over the lake, a great sheet of flame, softened by a wrapping of thin purplish cloud, like some lives, struggling, fiery, triumphant, but half hidden by this hazy veil of mortality.

“Are you going to write another story, Beth?”

“Yes, I thought one out last fall.  I shall write it as soon as I am rested.”

“What is it—­a love story?”

“Yes, it’s natural to me to write of love; and yet—­I have never been seriously in love.”

May laughed softly.

“Do you know, I am beginning to long to love truly.  I want to taste the deep of life, even if it brings me pain.”

It was a momentary restlessness, and she recalled these words before long.

Mr. Perth joined them just then.  He was going away for a week’s holiday on the following day.

“I suppose you have a supply for Sunday,” said Mrs. Perth.

“Yes, I have.  I think he’ll be a very good one.  He’s a volunteer missionary.”

“Where is he going?” asked Beth.

“I don’t know.”

“I should like to meet him,” and Beth paused before she continued, in a quiet tone, “I am going to be a missionary myself.”

“Beth!” exclaimed Mrs. Perth.

“I thought you were planning this,” said Mr. Perth.

“Thought so?  How could you tell?” asked Beth.

“I saw it working in your mind.  You are easily read.  Where are you going?”

“I haven’t decided yet.  I only just decided to go lately—­one Sunday afternoon this spring.  I used to hate the idea.”

Perhaps it was this little talk that made her think of Arthur again that night.  Why had he never sent her one line, one word of sympathy in her sorrow?  He was very unkind, when her father had loved him so.  Was that what love meant?

The supply did not stay at the parsonage, and Beth did not even ask his name, as she supposed it would be unfamiliar to her.  The old church seemed so home-like that Sunday.  The first sacred notes echoed softly down the aisles; the choir took their places; then there was a moment’s solemn hush,—­and Arthur!  Why, that was Arthur going up into the pulpit!  She could hardly repress a cry of surprise.  For the moment she forgot all her coldness and indifference, and looked at him intently.  He seemed changed, somehow; he was a trifle paler, but there was a delicate fineness about him she had never seen before, particularly in his eyes, a mystery of pain and sweetness, blended and ripened into a more perfect manhood.  Was it because Arthur preached that sermon she thought it so grand?  No, everybody seemed touched.  And this was the small boy who had gone hazel-nutting with her, who had heard her geography, and, barefoot, carried her through the brook.  But that was long, long ago.  They had changed since then.  Before she realized it, the service was over, and the people