away, and she did not know that one who loved her had been so near! Then
she saw a grey gleam in the east. Ah, no! she could not die. The day was
coming again, and she would have to face them all. She would sit in the
same place at the breakfast table. She would meet Clarence again, and
Marie--oh--oh, she could not bear the thought of it! She sat up on her
bedside with such a weary, anguished look in her eyes! Then she went to
kneel at the open window, where her mother had taught her to kneel long
years ago. Her sweet-faced, long-dead mother! When she raised her eyes
again the east was all aglow with the pink and purple dawn, and the
rooks were cawing in the pines across the meadow. She paced the floor
for a moment or two.

"Yes, it must be done. I will do it," she thought. "He loves her. I will
not stand in the way of his happiness. No; I had rather die."

And she took a sheet of note-paper, and wrote these simple words:

"DEAR CLARENCE,--I do not believe you love me any more. I can never
be your wife. I know your secret. I know you love Marie. I have
seen it often in your eyes. Be happy with her, and forget me. May
you be very happy, always. Good-bye. BETH."

She took it herself to the Mayfair home, knowing that her father would
only think she had gone out for a morning walk. The smoke-wreaths were
curling upward from the kitchen chimneys as she passed down the street,
and Squire Mayfair looked a little surprised when she handed him her
note for Clarence, and turned to walk away.

That sleepless, tearless night had told upon her, and she was not able
to come down to breakfast. Her father came in, and looked at her with a