It was a wonderfully deep insight into human
nature that Beth had; but she had never applied it where Clarence was
concerned before, and now that she did, what was it she saw?--a weak,
wavering, fickle youth, with a good deal of fine sentiment, perhaps, but
without firm, manly strength; ambitious, it was true, but never likely
to fulfil his ambitions. The sight pained her. And yet this was the one
she had exalted so, and had believed a soaring genius. True, his mind
had fine fibre in it, but he who would soar must have strength as well
as wings. Beth saw clearly just what Clarence lacked, and what can pain
a woman more deeply than to know the object she has idealized is
unworthy?
Beth had not told her father yet that all was at an end between her and
Clarence. She dreaded telling him that, but she knew he must have
learned it from the Mayfairs during her absence. She sighed as she
thought of it all, and just then Dr. Woodburn came in and sat down on
the couch beside her. They talked until the twilight of that rainy
afternoon began to deepen. Then they were silent for a while, and Beth
saw her father looking at her with a tender look in his eyes.
"Beth, my dear child, what is wrong between you and Clarence?"
She had believed she could tell him all with perfect calmness, but there
was something so very gentle in his look and voice that it disarmed her,
and she threw both arms about his neck, and burst into tears.
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