uncle's farm, just beyond the pine wood to the north of her home. Her
father had always taken a deep interest in him, and when the death of
his uncle and aunt left him alone in the world, Dr. Woodburn had taken
him into his home for a couple of years until he had gone away to
school. Arthur had written once or twice, but Beth was staying with her
Aunt Margaret, near Welland, that summer, and she had seen fit, for
unexplained reasons, to stop the correspondence: so the friendship had
ended there. It was five years now since she had seen her old
play-fellow, and she found herself wondering if he would be greatly
changed.

After tea Beth took out her books, as usual, for an hour or two; then,
about eight o'clock, with her tin-pail on her arm, started up the road
for the milk. This was one of her childhood's tasks that she still took
pleasure in performing. She sauntered along in the sweet June twilight
past the fragrant clover meadow and through the pine wood, with the
fire-flies darting beneath the boughs. Some girls would have been
frightened, but Beth was not timid. She loved the still sweet solitude
of her evening walk. The old picket gate clicked behind her at the Birch
Farm, and she went up the path with its borders of four-o'clocks. It was
Arthur's old home, where he had passed his childhood at his uncle's--a
great cheery old farm-house, with morning-glory vines clinging to the
windows, and sun-flowers thrusting their great yellow faces over the
kitchen wall.

The door was open, but the kitchen empty, and she surmised that Mrs.
Birch had not finished milking; so Beth sat down on the rough bench
beneath the crab-apple tree and began to dream of the olden days. There
was the old chain swing where Arthur used to swing her, and the
cherry-trees where he filled her apron. She was seven and he was