There were indeed four strangely assorted characters in that sleigh as they were carried beyond the sounds of music and gayety, which, to Hemstead and Lottie Marsden at least, were little less than mockery. There was the stolid coachman, who, whatever were his thoughts, had been trained to appear oblivious of everything save his duty, and to be but an animate part of the "establishment." He was much like the horses he drove, living his narrow, material life in the passing hour, knowing little and caring less about the past or the future.

Hemstead, in contrast, had a mind as ethereal as faith could make it, and a fancy enriched by wide reading. Heretofore he had lived chiefly in the past and future, his studies making him at home in the one, and his hopes leading him forward into the other. But now a silent form near him had a strange power to concentrate his thoughts on the present. The man who had speculated and reasoned about sinners in the abstract, and who had classified and divided them up into well-defined shades and degrees, was now sorely puzzled over two of them, who, in a certain sense, were under his charge. What was also odd, his deepest sympathy and desire to help did not appear drawn toward the greater sinner. Indeed, for the tipsy youth he had hardly a sentiment other than contempt. Broad, impartial rules of action and feeling seemed perfectly correct in the seminary. He forgot that he was not carrying them out. It did not occur to him that he was like a physician who stepped by the sickest patient to a better and more promising one. In justice it must be said that he would have put himself to any personal inconvenience, and have made any effort in his power, were the question brought to an issue, in order to work a transformation in De Forrest's character. But for some reason it was so perfectly natural to take an absorbing interest in Lottie's moral state that he never asked himself why he had not a similar solicitude for Addie or Bel Parton.

Rigid and impartial rules are very well till fallible men come to apply them to their most fallible fellow-creatures.

Only God can mercifully apply a perfect law to imperfect humanity, and if He had a "beloved disciple," might not Hemstead have a favorite sinner?

And an oddly related couple were those two young people whom all supposed destined for a union, that in the judgment of friends would be most fitting, but that in truth would be unnatural and productive of wretchedness. Though Hemstead's mind dwelt unwaveringly upon them, he never once looked back during the drive. He would have seen a strange sight if he had,—a beautiful woman, with a face looking almost spirit-like in the pale moonlight, with her arm, for the first time, around a man whom she was beginning in the depths of her soul almost to loathe. No embrace of affection was that, but a mechanical act prompted by a stern and remorseful sense of duty. She shrank from the man whose swaying form she steadied. It was settled that night in her own soul, as if by a decree of fate, that she would never marry Julian De Forrest. And yet it was one of the good traits in her character, that, while she drew back in shuddering aversion from any dose personal relation to him, she at the same time bad generous, regretful pity, and, if she could be kind to him at a distance, would be a very faithful friend.

But why did her eyes tarn so often and so wistfully up to the tall great-coated form before her? She did not know. She did not even ask herself.

Are we ever guided by reason, will, deliberate choice? Are there not often strong half-recognized instincts that sway us more profoundly, even as the plant unconsciously turns its leaves and blossoms towards the sun, and sends its roots groping unerringly to the moisture?

So absorbed was she in looking at the square, burly form before her, that the sleigh suddenly stopped at Mrs. Marchmont's door, and Hemstead looked around and caught her eye. What was more, he saw her apparently loving embrace of De Forrest. He was not versed in the conditions of intoxication, nor did he realize that De Forrest was so far gone as to make the act necessary. But he could see her blush, even in the moonlight.

Without a word he assisted her oat, but had some difficulty with De Forrest, who, from the fumes of liquor and the cold air, had grown very drowsy. But Hemstead's grasp was so strong and masterful, that while he roused, he also steadied and supported him up the steps. Lottie said to the coachman, "Mr. De Forrest is not well, so we came home earlier. You may now return for the others."

The man heard her with a stolid face that might have been mahogany, but when by himself it relaxed into a grim smile as he chuckled, "I've seen people have such spells afore; but if you was my darter, miss, I'd make you give that chap the mitten, 'cause sich bad spells is wonderful apt to grow on a feller."

Mrs. Marchmont and Mr. Dimmerly had retired, and the rather dull servant who admitted them was too sleepy to note anything. Lottie promptly dismissed her, and told her she would wait for the others.

Hemstead saw De Forrest to his room. He had become so stupid that he did mechanically what was urged, and the student soon left him sleeping heavily.

But Hemstead's heart was strangely burdened. He had come to the conclusion that under all Lottie's coquetry and cousinly freedom with De Forrest she had hidden a real attachment, and that perhaps an engagement, or at least an understanding, existed between them. He did not think at the time why this relation should so depress him. He would probably have explained it by his natural regret that such a girl should be mismated to such a man. But it might well have been doubted whether his heart would have become suddenly like lead, had he discovered that his own cousin was engaged, even to Brently, however sincere might have been his regret. But he descended to the parlor with the unselfish purpose and wish to bring her mind again under the spell of truth, if possible, hoping that the events of the evening would suggest the need of a better philosophy than she had learned in the past.

But he would have no little difficulty in maintaining his disinterestedness and general missionary spirit in the interview that awaited him.

For a young man but a few years past his majority, with an impressible nature and a warm heart, to watch through the witching hour of midnight with a maiden like Lottie Marsden, and all the time have no other thought than her moral improvement, is perhaps asking too much of human nature. With the very best intentions and with the absolute conviction, as he supposed, that the young lady could only be a subject for his missionary zeal, unconsciously the beautiful picture she made with the firelight flickering upon her face, and the snowy opera-cloak thrown around her, stole into his heart that was large and empty, waiting for an occupant.

"I have drawn a chair close up to the fire," she said, "for you must be cold after riding on that high seat with the coachman."

"I am not cold, but I thank you all the same."

"You have been kinder to me than I deserved, Mr. Hemstead."

Truly Lottie's gratitude would be a dangerous thing to any man, as she expressed it then; and the disinterested student was conscious of a strange thrill at heart. But he said, with a flush of pleasure: "I do not know that I have. At any rate friends should not keep a debit and credit account with each other."

"And can you still feel friendly to me after this evening?"

"Do I look savagely hostile?" he asked smilingly.

"I feared you would despise me. I certainly despise myself."

"From the fact that you so evidently blame yourself I am less disposed to blame."

"But you rightly think me most worthy of blame."

"Do you honestly care what I think, Miss Marsden? My opinions have been formed in what must seem a plain and homely world to you, quite devoid of the elegance and fashion to which you have been accustomed."

"I begin to think it is a better world than mine, and to-night I am sick of elegance and fashion. Yes, I honestly do care now what you do think. I have been flattered and lied to all my life, and you are the first man who ever told me the unvarnished truth."

He rose and paced thoughtfully up and down the room; then looked dubiously at her. She was so exquisitely beautiful, and seemed in such a kindly mood, that he was greatly tempted to temporize and say smooth things, lest he should offend and drive her away. But conscience whispered, "Now is your opportunity to speak the 'unvarnished truth,' whatever be the consequences"; and conscience with Hemstead was an imperative martinet. She waited in curious and quiet expectancy. This sincere and unconventional man was delightfully odd and interesting to her. She saw the power and fascination of her beauty upon him, and at the same time perceived that in his crystal integrity he would give her his honest thought. She interpreted his hesitancy, and said, "You fear that I shall be offended?"

"Yes."

"I promise you to listen patiently—yes, gratefully—to the severest things you can say."

"I may test your promise severely. I am a plain and awkward man.
Will you permit a plain and homely illustration of my thought?"

"I'm in a mood for plain words to-night. They will be in keeping with the former events of the evening, which were plain enough."

"Well, then, were it possible that I could be the fortunate possessor of a statue by Phidias, I would not use it as a hat-stand. If I possessed a painting by Rubens, I would not turn it into a fire-screen."

He hesitated, as he saw the hot blood mount to her face; but she said quietly, "Go on. I think I understand you."

He continued in a tone that was as gentle as his words seemed harsh. "Believe me, I am speaking in kindness, and only because you are brave enough to give me leave. As Phidias might embody beauty itself in marble, so God has bestowed it on you. When I was looking upon that marvellous scene—that transfigured world—the morning after my arrival, you appeared and seemed a part of it. Do you remember what I said then? I have reluctantly thought to-night that you could wear your coronet of beauty, not Only as a benignant queen, but as a petty tyrant,—that you could put it to ignoble uses, and make it a slave to self. It seemed at times that you only sought to lead men to bow in admiration to you, instead of inspiring them to stand erect in true manhood, with their faces heavenward. A woman endowed as you are can always do with a man one of two things: either fascinate him with her own personality, so that his thought is only of her; or else through her beauty and words and manner, that are in keeping, suggest the diviner loveliness of a noble life and character. I am satisfied that one could not be in Miss Martell's society without being better, or wishing to be better. You might have the same influence, and to a greater degree, because you naturally have more force and quicker sympathies. There is more magnetism in your nature, and you could understand and help, if you chose, a wider range of charact............