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.