Oh, joy! joy
everlasting! joy linking earth to heaven! They rested that night in
Beth's old room at the parsonage, and as the door closed behind them
they knelt together--man and wife. Sacred hour!
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.
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