She seemed
to understand from my face that I had suffered, and after we had become
friends I told her that story, that I had never told to mortal before or
since till now. She was so very tender, and I saw in her face that she
loved me, and by-and-by I took her to wife, and she healed over the
wound with her gentle hands. She was a sweet woman, Beth. God bless her
memory. But the strange part of the story is, Florence Waldon's brother,
Garth, had settled on that farm over there, the other side of the
pine-wood. She had two other brothers, one a talented editor in the
States, the other a successful lawyer. Garth, too, was a bright,
original fellow; he had a high standard of farm life, and he lived up to
it. He was a good man and a truly refined one, and when poor Lawrence
died he left little Arthur--he was three years old then--to him. The
dear little fellow; he looked so much like his mother. He used to come
and hold you in his arms when you were in long dresses, and then, do you
remember a few years later, when your own sweet mother died, how he came
to comfort you and filled your lap with flowers?"
Yes, Beth remembered it all, and the tears were running down her cheeks
as she drooped her head in silence.
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