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Page 40
Out beneath the stars of that still Christmas eve was one who saw the
light shine from their window as he passed and blessed them. He carried
a bunch of lilies in his hand as he made his way to a long white mound
in the church-yard. Poor Marie! He stooped and laid them in the snow,
the pure white snow--pure as the dead whose grave it covered! pure as
the vows he had heard breathed that night!
* * * * *
Seven years have passed, and Beth sits leaning back in a rocker by the
window, in the soft bright moonlight of Palestine. And what have the
years brought to Beth? She is famous now. Her novels are among the most
successful of the day. She has marked out a new line of work, and the
dark-eyed Jewish characters in her stories have broadened the sympathies
of her world of readers. But the years have brought her something
besides literary fame and success in the mission-field. By her side is a
little white cot, and a little rosy-cheeked boy lies asleep upon the
pillow, one hand, thrown back over his dark curls--her little Arthur.
There is a step beside her, and her husband bends over her with a loving
look.
"It is seven years to-night since we were married, Beth."
There are tears in her smiling eyes as she looks up into his face.
"And you have never regretted?" he asks.
"Oh, Arthur! How could I?" and she hides her face on his breast.
"My wife! my joy!" he whispers, as he draws her closer.
"Arthur, do you remember what a silly, silly girl I used to be when I
thought you had not enough of the artist-soul to understand my nature?
And here, if I hadn't had you to criticise and encourage me, I'd never
have succeeded as well as I have."
He only kisses her for reply, and they look out over the flat-roofed
city in the moonlight. Peace! peace! sweet peace! "Not as the world
giveth, give I unto you." And the stars are shining down upon them in
their love. And so, dear Beth, farewell!
The evening shadows lengthen as I write, but there is another to whom we
must bid farewell. It is Clarence. Father and mother are both dead, and
in one of the quiet parts of Toronto he lives, unmarried, in his
comfortable rooms. The years have brought him a greater measure of
success than once he had hoped. The sorrow he has so bravely hidden has
perhaps enabled him to touch some chord in the human hearts of his
readers. At any rate, he has a good round income now. Edith's children
come often to twine their arms about his neck; but there are other
children who love him, too. Down in the dark, narrow streets of the city
there is many a bare, desolate home that he has cheered with warmth and
comfort, many a humble fireside where the little ones listen for his
step, many little hands and feet protected from the cold by his
benefactions. But no matter how lowly the house, he always leaves behind
some trace of his artistic nature--a picture or a bunch of flowers,
something suggestive of the beautiful, the ideal. Sometimes, when the
little ones playing about him lisp their childish praises, a softness
fills his eyes and he thinks of one who is far away. Blessed be her
footsteps! But he is not sad long. No, he is the genial, jolly bachelor,
whom everybody loves, so unlike the Clarence of long ago; and so
farewell, brave heart--fare thee well!
End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Beth Woodburn, by Maud Petitt
*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BETH WOODBURN ***
***** This file should be named 16343-8.txt or 16343-8.zip *****
This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:
http://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/3/4/16343/
Produced by Early Canadiana Online, Robert Cicconetti,
Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net
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