I'll go there and wait for the first train." He held out his hand and the two men shook hands again; and Mr.Clendon stood at the door and watched the young man as he went swiftly down the steps, as if his life depended on his haste; the old man went back to his room and, sinking into his chair, covered his eyes with his hands and sat as if lost in thought--and memories.

And, strangely enough, it was not of the young man he was thinking, but of a very beautiful woman, half woman, half girl, with black hair and brilliant eyes, with the blood of the South mantling in her cheeks, with the fire of the South, passionate, impetuous, uncontrollable, in eyes and cheek; a woman of fire and strong will, hard to understand, impossible to control; a woman to make or wreck a man's life.

The woman whose vision rose before the old man, who sat, a bowed and desolate figure, in his chair, had wrecked his.

Strange that the meeting with this young man had called up that vision, strange that his face and voice had revivified the memory of the past.

With a sigh, a gesture of the flexible hand, as if he were putting the matter from him, Mr.Clendon took his violin from its case and began to play..