The afternoon was one of those sere, autumn days in late October. The sun shone through a hazy smoke and the air was crisp and bracing. The smoke curled out of the chimneys, lazily ascending, loath to leave the environment of its former condition in the fireplace; but the calm atmosphere allowed the ethereal vapor to hover about the old chimney and house and to fill the hemlocks with a pungent incense. This pungency of the smoky atmosphere oppressed Barclugh but to Mollie it was like a sweet odor. She rattled off small-talk, as, aglow with her buoyant spirits, she rode her prancing bay. Barclugh never had such a task to perform as now confronted him. To broach the subject nearest his heart would cast a gloom over the one whom he loved better than his own life. As he rode closely to the side of his companion, he could feel his heart throb violently, and as he sat stolidly in his saddle, between his monosyllabic answers to Mollie’s gayety, he thought: “What ails you, old soul? Are you losing the power of speech? What a pity to molest the happy life of such a perfect being! But we are selfish. Yes; her life must be linked with mine. She can make me a better man. Is it something in the poise of her head? is it something in the way that she rides her horse? No, it is what she thinks, her unconscious nobility of soul, that enthralls me.” “Well, Mr. Barclugh, let us take a spurt on this fine stretch of road. My Prince is chafing for a dash,” suggested Mollie as she looked up into her companion’s face, who evidently was in a reverie. “Good!” exclaimed Barclugh, somewhat startled. “Let’s go!” So he spurred his horse and as if by magic the two finely-bred steeds responded to the spirit of their riders and leaped into the air for a brush. Barclugh at once was on his mettle. To be challenged for a race by the one whom he adored was the tonic needed for his soul. The somber spell that depressed him was gone as he turned and saw Mollie urge on her steed. She was a daring horse-woman; her mount was peerless. Barclugh felt the blood mount to his hair as Mollie came up and rode past and smiled roguishly at her lover as she distanced him. Mollie reined in and turned around with her face full of animation as she asked spiritedly: “How’s that for my Prince, Mr. Barclugh?” “Splendid! splendid!” exclaimed Barclugh in admiration of the restless steed and the aristocratic form of Mollie, who, breathing fast, glanced at her whip with which she struck her habit, for she intuitively felt the ardor of Barclugh’s gaze and the blood mounted to her cheeks. Here was the moment for Barclugh to ask the question uppermost in his mind. But he did not. The power to encroach upon the sacred precincts of the innermost soul of the one whom a refined nature loves is like admiring the rose and then tearing up the roots that give it being. A refined nature pauses at desecration.