“Beth, I am sorry you are engaged so young,” he said gently.  “Are you sure you love him, Beth?”

“Oh, yes, papa, dear.  You don’t understand,” and she put both arms about his neck.  “I am in love, truly.  Believe me, I shall be happy.”

“Clarence is delicate, too,” said her father with a grave look.

They were both silent for a few minutes.

“But, after all, he cannot marry for three or four years to come, and you must take your college course, Beth.”

They were silent again for a moment.

“Well, God bless you, Beth, my darling child.”  There were tears in his eyes, and his voice was very gentle.  He kissed her and went out to his office.

What a dear old father he was!  Only Beth wished he had looked more hopeful and enthusiastic over the change in her life.  Aunt Prudence had been told before dinner, and she had taken it in a provokingly quiet fashion that perplexed Beth.  What was the matter with them all?  Did they think Clarence the pale-faced boy that he looked?  They were quite mistaken.  Clarence was a man.

So Miss Beth reasoned, and the cloud passed off her brow, for, after all, matters were about as they were before.  The morning had been rather pleasant, too.  Arthur had played some of his sweet old pieces, and then asked as a return favor to see some of her writing.  She had given him several copies of the Briarsfield Echo, and he was still reading.  In spite of her thoughts of Clarence, she wondered now and again what Arthur would think of her.  Would he be proud of his old play-mate?  He came across the lawn at last and drew one of the chairs up beside the hammock.

“I have read them all, Beth, and I suppose I should be proud of you.  You are talented—­indeed, you are more than talented:  you are a genius, I believe.  But do you know, Beth, I do not like your writings?”

He looked at her as if it pained him to utter these words.

“They are too gloomy.  There is a sentimental gloom about everything you write.  I don’t know what the years since we parted have brought you, Beth, but your writings don’t seem to come from a full heart, overflowing with happiness.  It seems to me that with your command of language and flowing style you might bring before your reader such sweet little homes and bright faces and sunny hearts, and that is the sweetest mission a writer has, I believe.”

Beth watched him silently.  She had not expected this from Arthur.  She thought he would overwhelm her with praise; and, instead, he sat there like a judge laying all her faults before her.  Stern critic!  Somehow he didn’t seem just like the old Arthur.

“I don’t like him any more,” she thought.  “He isn’t like his old self.”

But somehow she could not help respecting him as she looked at him sitting there with that great wave of dark hair brushed back from his brow, and his soulful eyes fixed on something in space.  He looked a little sad, too.