brave; you are good; I wish I were, too."

He looked down upon her tenderly for a moment.

"But, Beth, isn't your life a consecrated one--one of service?"

"It is all consecrated but one thing, and I can't consecrate that."

"You will never be happy till you do. Beth, I am afraid you are not
perfectly happy," he said, after a pause. "You do not look to be."

"Oh, yes, I am quite happy, very happy, and I shall be happier still by
and by," she said, thinking of Clarence. "But, Arthur, there is one
thing I can't consecrate. I am a Christian, and I do mean to be good,
only I can't consecrate my literary hopes and work."

"Oh, why not, Beth? That is the very thing you should consecrate. That's
the widest field you have for work. But why not surrender that, too,
Beth?"

"Oh, I don't know. I couldn't write like 'Pansy' does, it isn't natural
to me."

"You don't need to write like 'Pansy.' She has done splendid work,
though, and I don't believe there is a good home where she isn't loved.
But it may not be your place to be just like 'Pansy.'"

"No; I want to be like George Eliot."

A graver look crossed his face.