she had ever dreamed.  “I can never, never marry Arthur!” she had often told herself.  She laughed now as she thought of it, and it was late before she slept, for she seemed to see those eyes looking at her in the darkness—­so familiar, yet so new and changed!  She awoke for a moment in the grey light just before dawn, and she could see him still; her hand yet thrilled from his touch.  She heard the hoarse whistle of a steamer on the lake; the rooks were cawing in the elm-tree over the roof, and she fell asleep again.

“Good-morning, Rip Van Winkle,” said May, when she entered the breakfast-room.

“Why, is that clock—­just look at the time!  I forgot to wind my watch last night, and I hadn’t the faintest idea what time it was when I got up this morning!”

“Good-bye for to-night, Beth,” he had said, and he was going away to-morrow morning, so he would surely come to-day.  No wonder she went about with an absent smile on her face, and did everything in the craziest possible way.  It was so precious, this newly-found secret of hers!  She knew her own heart now.  There was no possibility of her misunderstanding herself in the future.  The afternoon was wearing away, and she sat waiting and listening.  Ding!  No, that was only a beggar-woman at the door.  Ding, again!  Yes, that was Arthur!  Then she grew frightened.  How could she look into his eyes?  He would read her secret there.  He sat down before her, and a formal coldness seemed to paralyze them both.

“I have come to bid you good-bye, Miss Woodburn!”

Miss Woodburn!  He had never called her that before.  How cold his voice sounded in her ears!

“Are you going back to Victoria College?” she asked.

“No, to the Wesleyan.  Are you going to spend your summer in Briarsfield?”

“Most of it.  I am going back to Toronto for a week or two before ’Varsity opens.  My friend Miss de Vere is staying with some friends there.  She is ill and—­”

“Do you still call her your friend?” he interrupted, with a sarcastic smile.

“Why, yes!” she answered wonderingly, never dreaming that he had witnessed that same scene in the Mayfair home.

“You are faithful, Beth,” he said, looking graver.  Then he talked steadily of things in which neither of them had any interest.  How cold and unnatural it all was!  Beth longed to give way to tears.  In a few minutes he rose to go.  He was going!  Arthur was going!  She dared not look into his face as he touched her hand coldly.

“Good-bye, Miss Woodburn.  I wish you every success next winter.”