"Oh, yes, he is," the Senator cried. "He's as strong as a deck hand, but he hasn't the skill. Just feel of that girl's arm, Belford. Don't be afraid of her--she won't hurt you." I put my hand on her arm, so round and firm, so warm through the gauze sleeve she wore; and I thought it well for me that neither the father nor the daughter observed my agitation. A negro came to tell the Senator that a Mr. Spencer wanted to speak to him at the gate. "Politics," said the law maker, as he took up his hat. "And that fellow wouldn't get off his horse to meet the President. Stay right where you are till I come back, Belford. I want to have a talk with you--on business." He went out and Mrs. Estell sat down in his armchair. Her face was flushed and her eyes were a delight to behold. "I'll be glad when this miserable campaign is over," she said. "It upsets everything, spoils our evenings, and bores everybody that comes to the house." "It doesn't bore me," I replied. "No; I gave him his orders not to talk politics to you." "That's a compliment, surely." "Oh, I don't know. I told him he ought to see that you didn't understand the political situation. And after he'd converted you he was willing enough to grant you freedom. Mr. Belford, why haven't you told me more about yourself?" And this gave me the opportunity to ask her why she had not told me more about herself, her days of romance. "I have had no such days," she said. "I was born here and I live here and that is all. But you have been everywhere; you came from an old and poetic country." "And you," I replied, "have always lived in a poetic country." "No, dreamy and visionary, but hardly poetic. Poetry means action and adventure. You have never told me about _her_?" "Her? What her do you mean?" "Oh, any her. There must have been one." "No; I can't recall one." "Really? And you so sentimental?" "I'm not sentimental. A sentimentalist would tint the truth while I would rather view it in its natural color, be it dun or even black. Do you believe we ought to be held responsible for everything?" "Yes, nearly everything." "But suppose a man forgets to lock the door of his heart, and a woman out in the dark, feeling about, accidentally lifts up the latch and comes in. She is pure and innocent and she does not know that she is warming herself at the hearth of a heart. Ought he to put her out and shut the door?" "No, he should make the fire still warmer and brighter, if she has come out of the cold and the dark." "But suppose her lawful place is beside another fire?" "Then she would not stray from it." "But say that she is walking in her sleep?" "She would run away as soon as she awakes." "Ah, but suppose she does not awake. Should he put her out?" "I--I don't know. He must not leave his door unlocked--he should--should even bar his windows."