“No.  He loved me once, the summer before I came to college, but he is changed now.  He was in Briarsfield this summer for a few days, but I saw he was changed.  He was not like the same Arthur—­so changed and cold.”  She sat with a grave look in her grey eyes as Marie lay watching her.  “Only once I thought he loved me,” she continued; “one night when he looked at me and touched my hand.  But the next day he was cold again, and I knew then that he didn’t love me any more.”

Marie lay for a few moments with a very thoughtful look in her eyes, but she made no remark, and, after a while, she slept from weakness and exhaustion.

Beth went out for a few hours next morning, and found her very much weaker when she returned.  Mrs. Bartram said she had tired herself writing a letter.  She had a wide-awake air as if she were watching for something, and her ear seemed to catch every step on the stair-way.  It was toward the close of day.

“Hark! who’s that?” she asked, starting.

“Only Mrs. Bartram.  Rest, dearest,” said Beth.

But the brilliant eyes were fixed on the door, and a moment later Clarence entered the room.  Marie still held Beth’s hand, but her dark eyes were fixed on Clarence with a look never to be forgotten.

“You have come at last,” she said, then fell back on her pillows exhausted, but smiling, her eyes closed.

He stood holding the frail hand she had stretched out to him, then the dark eyes opened slowly, and she gazed on him with a yearning look.

“Put your hand upon my forehead, I shall die happier,” she said, softly.  “Oh, Clarence, I loved you!  I loved you!  It can do no harm to tell you now.  Kiss me just once.  In a moment I shall be with my God.”

Beth had glided from the room, and left her alone with the man she loved; but in a few minutes he called her and Mrs. Bartram to the bed-side.  Marie was almost past speaking, but she stretched forth her arms to Beth and drew her young head down upon her breast.  There was silence for a few minutes, broken only by Marie’s hoarse breathing.

“Jesus, my Redeemer,” her pale lips murmured faintly, then the heart-throbs beneath Beth’s ear were still; the slender hand fell helpless on the counterpane; the brilliant eyes were closed; Marie was gone!

When Beth came to look at her again she lay smiling in her white, flowing garment, a single lily in her clasped hands.  Poor Marie!  She had loved and suffered, and now it was ended.  Aye, but she had done more than suffer.  She had refused the man she loved for his sake and for the sake of another.  Her sacrifice had been in vain, but the love that sacrificed itself—­was that vain?  Ah, no!  Sweet, brave Marie!

Her friends thought it a strange request of hers to be buried at Briarsfield, but it was granted.  Her vast wealth—­as she had died childless—­went, by the provisions of her father’s will, to a distant cousin, but her jewels she left to Beth.  The following afternoon Mr. Perth read the funeral service, and they lowered the lovely burden in the shadow of the pines at the corner of the Briarsfield church-yard.  There in that quiet village she had first seen him she loved.  After all her gay social life she sought its quiet at last, and the stars of that summer night looked down on her new-made grave.