"Why, May, where did you—whose baby?" asked Beth, breathless and smiling.
"Who does she look like?"
The likeness to May Perth on the little one-month-old face was unmistakable.
"You naughty puss, why didn't you tell me when you wrote?"
"Been keeping it to surprise you," said Mr. Perth. "Handsome baby, isn't it? Just like her mother!"
"What are you going to call her?"
"Beth." And May kissed her fondly as she led her in.
What a pleasant week that was! Life may be somewhat desert-like, but there is many a sweet little oasis where we can rest in the shade by the rippling water, with the flowers and the birds about us.
One afternoon Beth went out for a stroll by herself down toward the lake, and past the old Mayfair home. The family were still in Europe, and the place, she heard, was to be sold. The afternoon sunshine was beating on the closed shutters, the grass was knee-deep on the lawn and terraces, and the weeds grew tall in the flower-beds. Deserted and silent! Silent as that past she had buried in her soul. Silent as those first throbs of her child-heart that she had once fancied meant love.
That evening she and May sat by the window watching the sunset cast its glories over the lake, a great sheet of flame, softened by a wrapping of thin purplish cloud, like some lives, struggling, fiery, triumphant, but half hidden by this hazy veil of mortality.