the south side. The library window was quite close to the door of the
side hall, and as Beth came up the terrace, through the open window a
picture met her eyes that held her spell-bound.

Clarence and Marie were sitting side by side on the sofa, a few feet
from the window. Marie's dark face was drooping slightly, her cheeks
flushed, and her lips just parted in a smile. There was a picture of the
Crucifixion on the wall above them, and rich violet curtains hanging to
one side. One of Marie's slender olive hands rested on the crimson
cushions at her side, the other Clarence was stroking with a tender
touch. Both were silent for a moment. Then Clarence spoke in a soft, low
tone:

"Marie, I want to tell you something."

"Do you? Then tell me."

"I don't like to say it," he answered.

"Yes, do. Tell me."

"If I were not an engaged man,"--his voice seemed to tremble faintly,
and his face grew paler--"I should try and win you for my wife."

Beth drew back a step, her young cheek colorless as death. No cry
escaped her white lips, but her heart almost ceased its beating. It was
only a moment she stood there, but it seemed like years. The dark,
blushing girl, the weak, fair-haired youth in whom she had placed her
trust, the pictures, the cushions, the curtains, every detail of the
scene, seemed printed with fire upon her soul. She was stung. She had