day, with soft clouds and a mild breeze playing through the budding
trees. Marie came down looking so picturesque under her broad-brimmed
hat, and lifted her veil to receive Beth's farewell kiss. Beth watched
her as she crossed the lawn to the cab. Clarence came hurrying up to
clasp her hand at the gate. He looked paler, Beth thought; she hoped he
would come in, but he turned without looking at her window and hurried
away. Beth felt a little sad at heart; she looked at the long, empty
drawing-room, and sighed faintly, then went back upstairs to her books.

And what had that winter brought to Beth? She had grown; she felt it
within herself. Her mind had stretched out over the great wide world
with its millions, and even over the worlds of the sky at night, and at
times she had been overwhelmed at the glory of earth's Creator. Yes, she
had grown; but with her growth had come a restlessness; she felt as
though something were giving way beneath her feet like an iceberg
melting in mild waters. There was one particular night that this
restlessness had been strong. She had been to the Modern Language Club,
and listened to a lecture on Walt Whitman, by Dr. Needler. She had never
read any of Whitman's poetry before, she did not even like it. But there
were phrases and sentences here and there, sometimes of Whitman's,
sometimes of Dr. Needler's, that awakened a strange incoherent music in
her soul--a new chord was struck. It was almost dark when she reached
her room, at the close of a stormy winter day. She stood at her window
watching the crimson and black drifts of cloud piled upon each other in
the west. Strife and glory she seemed to read in that sky. She thought
of Whitman's rugged manliness, of the way he had mingled with all
classes of men--mingled with them to do them good. And Beth's heart
cried out within her, only to do something in this great, weary
world--something to uplift, to ennoble men, to raise the lowly, to feed
and to clothe the uncared for, to brighten the millions of homes, to