Almost the first one Beth saw, as the train entered Toronto station, was Clarence, scanning the car-windows eagerly for her face. Her eyes beamed as he came toward her. She felt as if at home again. Marie had secured her room for her, and Beth looked around with a pleased air when the cab stopped on St. Mary's street. It was a row of three-storey brick houses, all alike, but a cheery, not monotonous, row, with the maples in front, and Victoria University at the end of the street. A plump, cheery landlady saw Beth to her room, and, once alone, she did just what hundreds of other girls have done in her place—sat down on that big trunk and wept, and wondered what "dear old daddy" was doing. But she soon controlled herself, and looked around the room. It was a very pretty room, with rocker and table, and a book-shelf in the corner. There was a large window, too, opening to the south, with a view of St. Michael's College and St. Basil's Church. Beth realized that this room was to be her home for the coming months, and, kneeling down, she asked that the presence of Christ might hallow it.
She was not a very close follower of Christ, but the weakest child of God never breathed a prayer unheard.
It was such a pleasant treat when Marie tapped at the door just before tea. It would be nice to have Marie there all winter. Beth looked around the tea-table at the new faces: Mrs. Owen, at one end of the table, decidedly stout; Mr. Owen, at the other end, decidedly lean. There were two sweet-faced children, a handsome, gloomy-browed lawyer, and Marie at her side.
The next day, Clarence took Beth over to 'Varsity—as Toronto University is popularly called—and she never forgot that bright autumn morning when she passed under the arch of carved stone into the University halls, those long halls thronged with students. Clarence left her in the care of a gentle fourth-year girl. Beth was taken from lecturer to lecturer until the registering was done, and then she stopped by one of the windows in the ladies' dressing-room to gaze at the beautiful autumn scenery around—the ravine, with its dark pines, and the Parliament buildings beyond. Beth was beginning to love the place.
We must not pause long over that first year that Beth spent at 'Varsity. It passed like a flash to her, the days were so constantly occupied. But her memory was being stored with scenes she never forgot. It was so refreshing on the brisk, autumn mornings to walk to lectures through the crimson and yellow leaves of Queen's Park: and, later in the year, when the snow was falling she liked to listen to the rooks cawing among the pines behind the library. Sometimes, too, she walked home alone in the weird, winter twilight from the Modern Language Club, or from a late lecture, her mind all aglow with new thoughts. Then there were the social evenings in the gymnasium, with its red, blue and white decorations, palms and promenades, and music of the orchestra, and hum of strange voices. It was all new to Beth; she had seen so little of the world. There was the reception the Y.W.C.A. gave to the "freshettes"—she enjoyed that, too. What kind girls they were! Beth was not slow to decide that the "'Varsity maid" would make a model wife, so gentle and kindly and with such a broad, progressive mind. Still Beth made hardly any friendships worthy of the name that first year. She was peculiar in this respect. In a crowd of girls she was apt to like all, but to love none truly. When she did make friends she came upon them suddenly, by a sort of instinct, as in the case of Marie, and became so absorbed in them she forgot everyone else. This friendship with Marie was another feature of her present life that pleased her. She had dropped out of Sunday-school work. She thought city Sunday-schools chilly, and she spent many a Sunday afternoon in Marie's room. She liked to sit there in the rocker by the grate fire, and listen to Marie talk as she reclined in the cushions, with her dark, picturesque face. They talked of love and life and books and music, and the world and its ways, for Marie was clever and thoughtful. In after years Beth looked back on those Sunday afternoons with a shadow of regret, for her feet found a sweeter, holier path. Marie prided herself on a little tinge of scepticism, but they rarely touched on that ground. The twilight shadows gathered about the old piano in the corner, and the pictures grew dimmer on the wall, and Marie would play soft love-songs on her guitar, and sometime Beth would recite one of her poems.
"Have you finished the novel you were writing last summer, Beth?" asked Marie, one day.
"No, there are just three more chapters, and I am going to leave them till holidays, next summer, so I can give them my full time and attention."
"Tell me the story."
Then Beth sat by the fire with a dreamy look on her face and told the plot of her story. Marie leaned forward, a bright, delighted sparkle in her dark eyes. Beth had never interested her like that before. She felt encouraged, and Marie was in raptures when she had finished.
"It's just splendid! Oh, Beth, how clever you are; you will be famous soon. I shall be proud of your friendship."