For a young man but a few years past his majority, with an impressible nature and a warm heart, to watch through the witching hour of midnight with a maiden like Lottie Marsden, and all the time have no other thought than her moral improvement, is perhaps asking too much of human nature. With the very best intentions and with the absolute conviction, as he supposed, that the young lady could only be a subject for his missionary zeal, unconsciously the beautiful picture she made with the firelight flickering upon her face, and the snowy opera-cloak thrown around her, stole into his heart that was large and empty, waiting for an occupant. "I have drawn a chair close up to the fire," she said, "for you must be cold after riding on that high seat with the coachman." "I am not cold, but I thank you all the same." "You have been kinder to me than I deserved, Mr. Hemstead." Truly Lottie's gratitude would be a dangerous thing to any man, as she expressed it then; and the disinterested student was conscious of a strange thrill at heart. But he said, with a flush of pleasure: "I do not know that I have. At any rate friends should not keep a debit and credit account with each other." "And can you still feel friendly to me after this evening?" "Do I look savagely hostile?" he asked smilingly. "I feared you would despise me. I certainly despise myself." "From the fact that you so evidently blame yourself I am less disposed to blame." "But you rightly think me most worthy of blame." "Do you honestly care what I think, Miss Marsden? My opinions have been formed in what must seem a plain and homely world to you, quite devoid of the elegance and fashion to which you have been accustomed." "I begin to think it is a better world than mine, and to-night I am sick of elegance and fashion. Yes, I honestly do care now what you do think. I have been flattered and lied to all my life, and you are the first man who ever told me the unvarnished truth." He rose and paced thoughtfully up and down the room; then looked dubiously at her. She was so exquisitely beautiful, and seemed in such a kindly mood, that he was greatly tempted to temporize and say smooth things, lest he should offend and drive her away. But conscience whispered, "Now is your opportunity to speak the 'unvarnished truth,' whatever be the consequences"; and conscience with Hemstead was an imperative martinet. She waited in curious and quiet expectancy. This sincere and unconventional man was delightfully odd and interesting to her. She saw the power and fascination of her beauty upon him, and at the same time perceived that in his crystal integrity he would give her his honest thought. She interpreted his hesitancy, and said, "You fear that I shall be offended?" "Yes." "I promise you to listen patiently--yes, gratefully--to the severest things you can say." "I may test your promise severely. I am a plain and awkward man. Will you permit a plain and homely illustration of my thought?"