Beth smiled at his earnestness.
"Oh, no, Arthur; I couldn't do that."
His eyes filled in a moment with a sad, pleading look.
"Beth, can you refuse longer to surrender your life and your life's toil? Look, Beth," he said, pointing upward to the picture of Christ upon the wall, "can you refuse Him—can you refuse, Beth?"
"Oh, Arthur, don't," she said drooping her face.
"But I must, Beth! Will you enter your Father's service? Once again I ask you."
Her eyes were turned away and she answered nothing.
"Beth," he said softly, "I have a more selfish reason for urging you—for I love you, Beth. I have loved you since we were children together. Will you be my own—my wife? It is a holy service I ask you to share. Are you ready, Beth?"
Her pale face was hidden in her hands. He touched her hair reverently. Tick! tick! tick! from the old clock in the silence. Then a crimson flush, and she rose with sudden violence.
"Oh, Arthur, what can you mean? I thought—you seemed my brother almost—I thought you would always be that. Oh, Arthur! Arthur! how can you—how dare you talk so? I am Clarence Mayfair's promised wife."