"Good-bye."
He lingered a moment as he touched her hand in farewell.
"God bless you," she said, softly.
He crossed the garden in the sunshine, and she sat watching the fleecy clouds and snatches of lake between the roofs. Poor Clarence! Did love mean to him what it meant to her? Ah, yes! she had seen the pain written on his brow. Poor Clarence! That night she craved a blessing upon him as she knelt beside her bed. Just then he was wandering about the weed-grown lawns of his father's house, which looked more desolate than ever in the light of the full moon. It was to be sold the following spring, and he sighed as he walked on toward the lake-side. Right there on that little cliff he had asked Beth Woodburn to be his wife, and but for that fickle faithlessness of his, who knew what might have been? And yet it was better so—better for her—God bless her. And the thought of her drew him heavenward that night.
The next day Beth was on her way to Toronto to see Marie. She was in a pensive mood as she sat by the car window, gazing at the farm-lands stretching far away, and the wooded hill-sides checkered by the sunlight shining through their boughs. There is always a pleasant diversion in a few hours' travel, and Beth found herself drawn from her thoughts by the antics of a negro family at the other end of the car. A portly colored woman presided over them; she had "leben chilen, four dead and gone to glory," as she explained to everyone who questioned her.
It was about two o'clock when Beth reached Toronto, and the whirr of electric cars, the rattle of cabs and the mixed noises of the city street would all have been pleasantly exciting to her young nerves but for her thoughts of Marie. She wondered at her coming to the city to spend her last days, but it was quiet on Grenville Street, where she was staying with her friends, the Bartrams. Beth was, indeed, struck by the change in her friend when she entered the room. She lay there so frail and shadow-like among her pillows, her dark cheeks sunken, though flushed; but her eyes had still their old brilliancy, and there was an indefinable gentleness about her. Beth seemed almost to feel it as she stooped to kiss her. The Bartrams were very considerate, and left them alone together as much as possible, but Marie was not in a talking mood that day. Her breath came with difficulty, and she seemed content to hold Beth's hand and smile upon her, sometimes through tears that gathered silently. Bright, sparkling Marie! They had not been wont to associate tears with her in the past. It was a pleasant room she had, suggestive of her taste—soft carpet and brightly-cushioned chairs, a tall mirror reflecting the lilies on the stand, and a glimpse of Queen's Park through the open window. The next day was Sunday, and Beth sat by Marie while the others went to church. They listened quietly to the bells peal forth their morning call together, and Beth noted with pleasure that it seemed to soothe Marie as she lay with closed eyes and a half smile on her lips.
"Beth, you have been so much to me this summer. Your letters were so sweet. You are a great, grand woman, Beth." And she stroked Beth's hair softly with her frail, wasted hand.
"Do you remember when I used to pride myself on my unbelief?" Her breath failed her for a moment. "It is past now," she continued, with a smile. "It was one Sunday; I had just read one of your letters, and I felt somehow that Jesus had touched me. I am ready now. It was hard, so hard at first, to give up life, but I have learned at last to say 'His will be done.'"
Beth could not speak for the sob she had checked in her throat.
"Beth, I may not be here another Sunday. I want to talk to you, dear. You remember the old days when that trouble came between you and—and Clarence. I was a treacherous friend to you, Beth, to ever let him speak of love to me. I was a traitor to—"