ten--but such a man in her eyes, that sun-browned, dark-eyed boy. And
what a hero he was to her when she fell over the bridge, and he rescued
her! He used to get angry though sometimes. Dear, how he thrashed
Sammie Jones for calling her a "little snip." Arthur was good, though,
very good. He used to sit in that very bench where she was sitting, and
explain the Sunday-school lesson to her, and say such good things. Her
father had told her two or three years ago of Arthur's decision to be a
missionary. He was going away off to Palestine. "I wonder how he can do
it," she thought. "He has his B.A. now, too, and he was always so
clever. He must be a hero. I'm not good like that; I--I don't think I
want to be so good. Clarence isn't as good as that. But Clarence must be
good. His poetry shows it. I wonder if Arthur will like Clarence?"

Mrs. Birch, with a pail of fresh milk on each arm, interrupted her
reverie.

Beth enjoyed her walk home that night. The moon had just risen, and the
pale stars peeped through the patches of white cloud that to her fancy
looked like the foot-prints of angels here and there on the path of the
infinite. As she neared home a sound of music thrilled her. It was only
an old familiar tune, but she stopped as if in a trance. The touch
seemed to fill her very soul. It was so brave and yet so tender. The
music ceased; some sheep were bleating in the distance, the stars were
growing brighter, and she went on toward home.

She was surprised as she crossed the yard to see a tall dark-haired
stranger talking to her father in the parlor. She was just passing the
parlor door when he came toward her.

"Well, Beth, my old play-mate!"