of the poetic, sensitive type; his eyes were brown, his hair was almost
black, and thick, and long enough to touch his collar. His shoulders
were broad, and his limbs muscular and well shaped. He wore
tight-fitting top-boots, which he had drawn over his trousers to the
knee. His face was clean-shaven, and but for his tanned skin and
general air of the better-class planter, he might have passed for an
actor, poet, or artist. He was just the type of Southerner who, with a
little more ambition, and close application to books, might have become
a leading lawyer and risen finally to a seat in Congress. But John
Westerfelt had never been made to see the necessity of exertion on his
part. Things had come easily ever since he could remember, and his
wants were simple, and, in his own way, he enjoyed life, suffering
sharply at times, as he did this morning, over his mistakes, for at
heart he was not bad.

"Poor little girl," he said, as he went out on the front veranda to
wait for his breakfast. "It was just blind thoughtlessness. I really
never dreamt she was feeling that way. I've just got to make it
lighter for her. To begin with, I'll never put my foot inside of
Lithicum's gate, and I'll go over there this morning and try to make
her see what a worthless scamp I really am. I wonder if I couldn't
marry her--but, no, that wouldn't be right to her nor to me, for a man
hasn't the moral right to marry a woman he doesn't really love, even if
she thinks he is the only man on earth. I wonder if I really told her
I loved her?" Here Westerfelt shuddered, and felt a flush of shame
steal over his face. "Yes, I have--I have," he muttered, "and I reckon
I really did fancy I cared for her at the time. Yes, I have been a
contemptible coward; for my own idle enjoyment I have allowed her to go
on counting on me until the thought of my going to see Lizzie Lithicum
nearly kills her. Well, by George! I can cut that off, and I shall,