That night Beth lay listening as the autumn wind shook the elm-tree over the roof and drifted the clouds in dark masses across the starry sky.  But the winds might rage without—­aye, the storms might beat down, if they would, what did it matter?  Arthur was near, and the Divine presence was bending over her with its shielding love.  “Oh, God, Thou art good!” She was happy—­oh, so happy!  And she fell asleep with a smile on her face.

The autumn passed—­such a gloriously happy autumn—­and Christmas eve had come.  The snow lay white and cold on the fields and hills about Briarsfield, but in the old church all was warmth and light.  A group of villagers were gathered inside, most of them from curiosity, and before the altar Arthur and Beth were standing side by side.  Beth looked very beautiful as she stood there in her white bridal robes.  The church was still, sacredly still, but for the sound of Mr. Perth’s earnest voice; and in the rear of the crowd was one face, deadly pale, but calm.  It was Clarence.  How pure she looked, he thought.  Pure as the lilies hanging in clusters above her head!  Was she of the earth—­clay, like these others about her?  The very tone of her voice seemed to have caught a note from above.  No, he had never been worthy of her!  Weak, fickle, wave-tossed soul that he was!  A look of humiliation crossed his face, then a look of hope.  If he had never been worthy of her hand he would be worthy at least to have loved her in vain.  He would be what she would have had him be.  It was over; the last words were said; the music broke forth, and the little gold band gleamed on Beth’s fair hand as it lay on Arthur’s arm.  He led her down the aisle, smiling and happy.  Oh, joy! joy everlasting! joy linking earth to heaven!  They rested that night in Beth’s old room at the parsonage, and as the door closed behind them they knelt together—­man and wife.  Sacred hour!

Out beneath the stars of that still Christmas eve was one who saw the light shine from their window as he passed and blessed them.  He carried a bunch of lilies in his hand as he made his way to a long white mound in the church-yard.  Poor Marie!  He stooped and laid them in the snow, the pure white snow—­pure as the dead whose grave it covered! pure as the vows he had heard breathed that night!

* * * * *

Seven years have passed, and Beth sits leaning back in a rocker by the window, in the soft bright moonlight of Palestine.  And what have the years brought to Beth?  She is famous now.  Her novels are among the most successful of the day.  She has marked out a new line of work, and the dark-eyed Jewish characters in her stories have broadened the sympathies of her world of readers.  But the years have brought her something besides literary fame and success in the mission-field.  By her side is a little white cot, and a little rosy-cheeked boy lies asleep upon the pillow, one hand, thrown back over his dark curls—­her little Arthur.