"I have read them all, Beth, and I suppose I should be proud of you. You
are talented--indeed, you are more than talented: you are a genius, I
believe. But do you know, Beth, I do not like your writings?"

He looked at her as if it pained him to utter these words.

"They are too gloomy. There is a sentimental gloom about everything you
write. I don't know what the years since we parted have brought you,
Beth, but your writings don't seem to come from a full heart,
overflowing with happiness. It seems to me that with your command of
language and flowing style you might bring before your reader such sweet
little homes and bright faces and sunny hearts, and that is the sweetest
mission a writer has, I believe."

Beth watched him silently. She had not expected this from Arthur. She
thought he would overwhelm her with praise; and, instead, he sat there
like a judge laying all her faults before her. Stern critic! Somehow he
didn't seem just like the old Arthur.

"I don't like him any more," she thought. "He isn't like his old self."

But somehow she could not help respecting him as she looked at him
sitting there with that great wave of dark hair brushed back from his
brow, and his soulful eyes fixed on something in space. He looked a
little sad, too.

"Still, he isn't a writer like Clarence," she thought, "and he doesn't
know how to praise like Clarence does."

"But Arthur," she said, finally speaking her thoughts aloud; "you speak