She did not notice the lattice gate open and a slender, fair-haired man pause just inside to watch her.  It was Clarence Mayfair.  There was a touching expression on his face as he looked at her.  Yes, she was beautiful, he thought.  It was not a dream, the face that he had carried in his soul since that Sunday night last fall.  Beth Woodburn was beautiful.  She was a woman now.  She was only a child when they played their little drama of love there in Briarsfield.  The play was past now; he loved her as a man can love but one woman.  And now—­a shadow crossed his face—­perhaps it was too late!

“Clarence!” exclaimed Beth, as he advanced, “I’m glad to see you.”  And she held out her hand with an air of graceful dignity.

“You have come back to visit Briarsfield, I suppose.  I was so surprised to see you,” she continued.

“Yes, I am staying at Mr. Graham’s.”

She noticed as he talked that he looked healthier, stronger and more manly.  Altogether she thought him improved.

“Your father and mother are still in England, I suppose,” said she.

“Yes, they intend to stay with their relatives this winter.  As for me, I shall go back to ’Varsity and finish my course.”

“Oh, are you going to teach?”

“Yes; there’s nothing else before me,” he answered, in a discouraged tone.

She understood.  She had heard of his father’s losses, and, what grieved her still more, she had heard that Clarence was turning out a literary failure.  He had talent, but he had not the fresh, original genius that this age of competition demands.  Poor Clarence!  She was sorry for him.

“You have been all summer in Briarsfield?” he asked.

“Yes, but I am going to Toronto to-morrow morning.”

“Yes, I know.  Miss de Vere told me she had sent for you.”

“Oh, you have seen her then!”

“Yes, I saw her yesterday.  Poor girl, she’ll not last long.  Consumption has killed all the family.”

Beth wondered if he loved Marie, and she looked at him, with her gentle, sympathetic eyes.  He caught her look and winced under it.  She gazed away at the glimpse of lake between the village roofs for a moment.

“Beth, have you forgotten the past?” he asked, in a voice abrupt but gentle.

She started.  She had never seen his face look so expressive.  The tears rose to her eyes as she drooped her flushing face.

“No, I have not forgotten.”

“Beth, I did not love you then; I did not know what love meant—­”

“Oh, don’t speak of it!  It would have been a terrible mistake!”

“But, Beth, can you never forgive the past?  I love you now—­I have loved you since—­”

“Oh, hush, Clarence!  You must not speak of love!” And she buried her face in her hands and sobbed a moment, then leaned forward slightly toward him, a tender look in her eyes.

“I love another,” she said, in a low gentle voice.