Perhaps he was too harsh. He had only heard a sentence or two outside
the window, and he might have judged too harshly.

"I know it, I know I have wronged her," said Clarence, in a choked
voice; "but don't betray me!"

There was a ring of true penitence and sorrow in the voice that touched
Arthur, and as he raised his face to that picture of the Crucifixion on
the wall, it softened gradually.

"Well, perhaps I am severe. May God forgive you, Clarence. But it is
hard for a man to see another treat the woman he--well, there, I'll say
no more. Only promise me you will be true to her--more worthy of her."

"I will try, Arthur. Heaven knows I have always meant to be honorable."

"Then, good-bye, Clarence. Only you need not tell Beth you have seen me
to-night," said Arthur, as he turned to leave; "I shall be out of
Briarsfield before morning."

Poor Arthur! Time had not yet healed his wound, but he was one of those
brave souls who can "suffer and be still." That night, as he was passing
through Briarsfield on the late train, a desire had seized him to go
back to the old place just once more, to walk up and down for a little
while before the home of the woman he loved. He did not care to speak to
her or to meet her face to face. She was another's promised wife. Only
to be near her home--to breathe one deep blessing upon her, and then to
leave before break of day, and she would never know he had been near. He
had come under cover of the darkness, and had seen her descending the
great wide stairway in her white muslin dress, and going down the dark