George Eliot like a
personal friend; she was her ideal, her model, for Beth had some repute
as a literary character in Briarsfield. Not a teacher in the village
school but had marked her strong literary powers, and she was not at all
slow to believe all the hopeful compliments paid her. From a child her
stories had filled columns in the Briarsfield _Echo_, and now she was
eighteen she told herself she was ready to reach out into the great
literary world--a nestling longing to soar. Yes, she would be
famous--Beth Woodburn, of Briarsfield. She was sure of it. She would
write novels; oh, such grand novels! She would drink from the very
depths of nature and human life. The stars, the daisies, sunsets,
rippling waters, love and sorrow, and all the infinite chords that
vibrate in the human soul--she would weave them all with warp of gold.
Oh, the world would see what was in her soul! She would be the bright
particular star of Canadian literature; and then wealth would flow in,
too, and she would fix up the old home. Dear old "daddy" should retire
and have everything he wanted: and Aunt Prudence, on sweeping days,
wouldn't mind moving "the trash," as she called her manuscripts. Daddy
wouldn't make her go to bed at ten o'clock then; she would write all
night if she choose; she would have a little room on purpose, and
visitors at Briarsfield would pass by the old rough-cast house and point
it out as Beth Woodburn's home, and--well, this is enough for a sample
of Beth's daydreams. They were very exaggerated, perhaps, and a little
selfish, too; but she was not a fully-developed woman yet, and the years
were to bring sweeter fruit. She had, undoubtedly, the soul of genius,
but genius takes years to unfold itself.

Then a soft expression crossed the face of the dreamer. She leaned
back, her eyes closed and a light smile played about her lips. She was
thinking of one who had encouraged her so earnestly--a tall, slender
youth, with light curly hair, blue eyes and a fair, almost girlish,
face--too fair and delicate for the ideal of most girls: but Beth
admired its paleness and delicate features, and Clarence Mayfair had
come to be often in her thoughts. She remembered quite well when the
Mayfairs had moved into the neighborhood and taken possession of the
fine old manor beside the lake, and she had become friends with the only
daughter, Edith, at school, and then with Clarence. Clarence wrote such
pretty little poems, too. This had be