_BETH AT EIGHTEEN._


In the good old county of Norfolk, close to the shore of Lake Erie, lies
the pretty village of Briarsfield. A village I call it, though in truth
it has now advanced almost to the size and dignity of a town. Here, on
the brow of the hill to the north of the village (rather a retired spot,
one would say, for so busy a man), at the time of which my story treats,
stood the residence of Dr. Woodburn.

It was a long, old-fashioned rough-cast house facing the east, with
great wide windows on each side of the door and a veranda all the way
across the front. The big lawn was quite uneven, and broken here and
there by birch trees, spruces, and crazy clumps of rose-bushes, all in
bloom. Altogether it was a sweet, home-like old place. The view to the
south showed, over the village roofs on the hill-side, the blue of Lake
Erie outlined against the sky, while to the north stretched the open,
undulating country, so often seen in Western Ontario.

One warm June afternoon Beth, the doctor's only daughter, was lounging
in an attitude more careless than graceful under a birch tree. She, her
father and Mrs. Margin, the housekeeper--familiarly known as Aunt
Prudence--formed the whole household. Beth was a little above the
average height, a girlish figure, with a trifle of that awkwardness one
sometimes meets in an immature girl of eighteen; a face, not what most
people would call pretty, but still having a fair share of beauty. Her
features were, perhaps, a little too strongly outlined, but the brow was
fair as a lily, and from it the great mass of dark hair was drawn back
in a pleasing way. But her eyes--those earnest, grey eyes--were the most
impressive of all in her unusually impressive face. They were such