music greeted them as they reached the house. Edith was playing her guitar. Mrs. Mayfair met them on the veranda.

"Why, Clarence, how late you've kept the child out," said Mrs. Mayfair with a motherly air. "I'm afraid you will catch cold, Miss Woodburn; there is such a heavy dew!"

Clarence went up to his mother and said something in a low tone. A pleased look lighted her face.

"I am so glad, dear Beth, my daughter. I shall have another daughter in place of the one I am giving away."

She drew the girl to her breast with tender affection. Beth had been motherless all her life, and the caress was sweet and soothing to her. Edith fastened her cape and kissed her fondly when she was going home. Clarence went with her, and somehow everything was so dream-like and unreal that even the old rough-cast home looked strange and shadowy in the moon-light. It was perhaps a relief that her father had not yet returned.

She was smiling and happy, but even her own little room seemed strangely unnatural that night. She stopped just inside the door and looked at it, the moonlight streaming through the open window upon her bed. Was she really the same Beth Woodburn that had rested there last night and thought about the roses. She took them out of her belt now. A sweetly solemn feeling stole over her, and she crossed over and knelt at the window, the withered roses in her hand, her face upturned to heaven. Sacred thoughts filled her mind. She had longed for love, someone to love, someone who loved her; but was she worthy, she asked herself, pure enough, good enough? She felt to-night that she was kneeling at an unseen shrine, a bride, to be decked by the holy angels in robes whiter than mortal ever saw.

Waves of sweet music aroused her. She started up as from a dream, recognizing at once the touch of the same hand that she had heard in the distance the night before, and it was coming from their own parlor window, right beneath hers! She held her breath almost as she stole out and leaned over the balustrade to peer into the parlor. Why, it was Arthur! Was it possible he could play like that? She made a striking picture as she stood there on the stairs, her great grey eyes drinking in the music: but she was relieved somehow when it ceased. It was bright, quick, inspiring; but it seemed to make her forget her new-born joy while it lasted.

CHAPTER III.

WHITHER, BETH?

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