the church at the end of the road was but poorly
attended. There were not more than a dozen people present; but Beth,
seated beside the door, enjoyed it. She was all fervour now, and every
emotional exercise was a pleasure.

After the service she strolled down the quaintly irregular front
street, which was all red brick houses with small window-panes, three
to the width of the window, except where an aspiring tradesman had
introduced plate-glass and a vulgar disguise of stucco, which
converted the warm-toned bricks into commonplace colourless greyness.
It was on one side of this street that the principal shops were, and
Beth stood for some time gazing at a print in a stationer's window--a
lovely little composition of waves lapping in gently towards a
sheltered nook on a sandy beach. Beth, wafted there instantly, heard
the dreamy murmur and felt the delicious freshness of the sea, yet the
picture did not satisfy her.

"I should want somebody," she broke out in herself. "I should want
somebody--somebody to lay my head against. Ah, dear Lord, how I hate
to be alone!"

Old Lady Benyon, at her post of observation in the big bow-window at
the top of the street, saw Beth standing there, and speculated.
"Gracious, how that child grows!" she exclaimed. "She'll be a woman
directly."

As Beth went on down the street, she began to suffer from that dull
irresolute feeling which comes of a want of purpose. She wanted a
companion and she wanted an object. Presently she met a young man who
looked at her intently as they approached each other, and as he looked
his face brightened. Beth's pulse quickened pleasurably and her colour
rose. Her steps became buoyant. She held up her head and glowed with
animation, but was unaware of the source of this sudden happy
stimulant, nor did she try to discover it. She was living her
experiences then, by-and-by she would reflect upon them, then
inevitably she would reproduce them, and all without intention. As the
sun rises, as the birds build, so would she work when the right time
came. Talent may manufacture to order, but works of genius are the
outcome of an irresistible impulse, a craving to express something for
its own sake and the pleasure of expressing it, with no thought of
anything beyond. It is talent that thinks first of all of applause and
profits, and only works to secure them--works for the result, for the
end in view--never for love of the work.

Beth's heart had no satisfactio