Once he mentioned a woman's name, and she started.
"In all that time," she inquired, softly, her eyes lowered, "did no woman
ever come into your life?"
"No," he answered, simply; "I never thought of a woman then."
She raised her eyes to his, and lowered them instantly, her face flushing.
During a moment's lull in the conversation the hour was struck from a
neighboring steeple. They both started, half-guiltily. It was midnight. He
at once arose to go, apologizing for the lateness of his visit.
"I would like to see you again, Miss Braxton, before I go North," he said,
as he prepared to leave.
She had risen with him, and they were both standing beside the mantel. Her
face paled. Then she turned her head aside, and said, in a tone that was
almost inaudible, "Father objects."
He became rigid instantly, and his lips grew white. "I suppose your father
don't know who I am," he said, proudly. "My family is as good as any in the
State. I loved horses and the life and color of the race-track, and refused
to go to college when I could. Until I met you I never thought of anything
except horses.
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