He shielded his eyes for a moment with his fair delicate hand.  It was a hard moment for them both.

“I am so sorry, Clarence.  I know what you feel.  I am sorry we ever met.”

He looked at her with a smile on his saddened face.

“I feared it was so; but I had rather love you in vain than to win the love of any other woman.  Good-bye, Beth.”

“Good-bye.”

He lingered a moment as he touched her hand in farewell.

“God bless you,” she said, softly.

He crossed the garden in the sunshine, and she sat watching the fleecy clouds and snatches of lake between the roofs.  Poor Clarence!  Did love mean to him what it meant to her?  Ah, yes! she had seen the pain written on his brow.  Poor Clarence!  That night she craved a blessing upon him as she knelt beside her bed.  Just then he was wandering about the weed-grown lawns of his father’s house, which looked more desolate than ever in the light of the full moon.  It was to be sold the following spring, and he sighed as he walked on toward the lake-side.  Right there on that little cliff he had asked Beth Woodburn to be his wife, and but for that fickle faithlessness of his, who knew what might have been?  And yet it was better so—­better for her—­God bless her.  And the thought of her drew him heavenward that night.

The next day Beth was on her way to Toronto to see Marie.  She was in a pensive mood as she sat by the car window, gazing at the farm-lands stretching far away, and the wooded hill-sides checkered by the sunlight shining through their boughs.  There is always a pleasant diversion in a few hours’ travel, and Beth found herself drawn from her thoughts by the antics of a negro family at the other end of the car.  A portly colored woman presided over them; she had “leben chilen, four dead and gone to glory,” as she explained to everyone who questioned her.

It was about two o’clock when Beth reached Toronto, and the whirr of electric cars, the rattle of cabs and the mixed noises of the city street would all have been pleasantly exciting to her young nerves but for her thoughts of Marie.  She wondered at her coming to the city to spend her last days, but it was quiet on Grenville Street, where she was staying with her friends, the Bartrams.  Beth was, indeed, struck by the change in her friend when she entered the room.  She lay there so frail and shadow-like among her pillows, her dark cheeks sunken, though flushed; but her eyes had still their old brilliancy, and there was an indefinable gentleness about her.  Beth seemed almost to feel it as she stooped to kiss her.  The Bartrams were very considerate, and left them alone together as much as possible, but Marie was not in a talking mood that day.  Her breath came with difficulty, and she seemed content to hold Beth’s hand and smile upon her, sometimes through tears that gathered silently.  Bright, sparkling Marie!  They had not been wont to associate tears