he went to
a livery stable and hired a horse. When he returned he hardly knew
where he had been, but the owner of the horse knew he had been ridden
hard, so hard that he resolved to make certain stipulations before
trusting him again with such a valuable animal.

A few minutes before six Radford Leicester was again at The Beeches.

"Mr. Castlemaine is expecting you, sir," said the servant, as he took
his hat and coat; "he will be down in a few minutes. Will you step this
way, sir?"

It was the same room. He noted the chair where Olive had sat the day
before, he remembered the quiet ticking clock on the mantelpiece, the
fire-irons that were placed on the hearth. He recalled the words of the
servant, "Mr. Castlemaine is expecting you, sir." Did that mean that
Olive had deputed her father to speak for her? If so, it meant refusal.
His heart grew cold at the thought. The door opened and Olive entered.
Eagerly he looked at her, feverishly he tried to read her answer in her
eyes.

She came up close to him, and then stood still. Her eyes were full of
tears.

"Olive?" he said. Everything he meant seemed to be in her name as he
uttered it. It was a question, it was an expression of his love, of his
heart's longings.

"Yes," she replied.

He lifted her hand reverently to his lips and kissed it. He longed to
take her in his arms, and to tell her of his heart's joy; he longed to
kiss her lips, and tell her that he would give his whole life to make
himself worthy of her trust. But something sealed his lips. What was it?

Is there, humanly speaking, a diviner power on earth than the love of a
pure, womanly woman? Is there anything that can make a bad man ashamed
of his badness, or lead a purposeless man to devote his life to some
great and worthy cause, so really and truly as the love of a woman whom
he knows to be worthy of the name of woman? If there is, I do not know
of it. If the old, old story that sin came upon the race by a woman is
true, it is more true that good women are God's greatest means of
purifying the world of its sin. Radford Leicester had not been a good
man. If he had not fallen as low as some, it was because of innate
pride, and because his nature abhorred some of the grosser and coarser
forms of sin. He had not been filled with high purposes, he had lived
wholly for self; but as he kissed Olive's hand, such a contrition, such
a shame as he had never known before, came into his heart. Proud man as
he