put her lips to the cup of bitterness, and her face looked wild and
haggard as she turned away.

Only the stars above and the night wind sighing in the leaves, and a
heart benumbed with pain! A tall man passed her in the shadow of the
trees as she was crossing the lawn, but she paid no heed. The lights in
the village homes were going out one by one as she returned up the dark,
deserted street. The moon emerged from the clouds, and filled her room
with a flood of unnatural light just as she entered. She threw herself
upon her pillow, and a cry of pain went up from her wounded heart. She
started the next instant in fear lest some one had heard. But no, there
was no one near here, save that loving One who hears every moan; and
Beth had not learned yet that He can lull every sufferer to rest in His
bosom. The house was perfectly still, and she lay there in the darkness
and silence, no line changing in the rigid marble of her face. She heard
her father's step pass by in the hall; then the old clock struck out the
midnight hour, and still she lay in that stupor with drops of cold
perspiration on her brow.

Suddenly a change came over her. Her cheeks grew paler still, but her
eyes burned. She rose and paced the room, with quick, agitated steps.

"Traitress! Traitress!" she almost hissed through her white lips. "It is
_her_ fault. It is _her_ fault. And I called her _friend_. Friend!
Treachery!"

Then she sank upon her bed, exhausted by the outburst of passion, for it
took but little of this to exhaust Beth. She was not a passionate girl.
Perhaps, never in her life before had she passed through anything like
passion, and she lay there now still and white, her hands folded as in