of her. Did he owe her nothing for that? He
was very sensitive to people's claims upon him. His heart bled and was
afraid for her. He could not see her way. He knew she had had a hard
time,--harder than people dreamed. They thought her long service and
support of her invalid father were made easy by a love of duty and by
exceptional ability. Enfield knew that, though she had rare tact and
succeeded admirably, all sordid care and labor were extremely
repugnant to her. She had said she never had anything she liked; he
would have expressed it, that she never liked anything she had. He
thought that a very melancholy case. That she liked the society of
spirited young men, he had learned to his sorrow more than once or
twice; or, at least, that they were very apt to like her; but they
were all sent (or went) about their business one after another.

Enfield had a friend named Loramer, who had been one of the spirited
fellows at one time, and the episode had been a severe strain upon
their friendship. It was a summer vacation of Loramer's, when he made
Miss Brainard's acquaintance, and he had found her bright, piquant
face, and light, laughing chatter very appetizing. He met her upon
riding and sailing parties, sat and walked and drove with her. Enfield
avoided them both awhile, then spoke offensively to Loramer, and got
scornful laughter in reply. They did not meet again for some time.

One evening Loramer brought Cora home from a drive. He lifted her
out, and they stood talking there together under the trees. He made an
appointment to go rowing with her the next day, and they parted, with
some show of reluctance on his part, and low laughter on hers.

He scratched a match and lighted a cigar, as he drove down the street.
As he passed through the town, he saw some one going before him on the
foot-path. He let his horse walk, and watched the man till he turned a
corner. He turned the horse after him, overtook him, and stopped
opposite and said:

"Enfield, come and ride."

He stood by a tree a minute or two, looking, then came and got in.

They rode along, each in his corner.

"Have a cigar?" said Loramer.

"No," answered Enfield.

Loramer took his own from his mouth and flung it away. He struck the
horse with the whip, Enfield put his hand on the reins, and said,
steadily:

"Don't do that, the mare's willing enough; she's tired."

Loramer pulled her up, and let her walk a mile or more, up among the
hills; then he