companions. The rude vices of his old associates had made him impatient
of the feebler sensual indulgences of the later companions of
his luxury, and exposed their hollow fascinations; his sensitive
fastidiousness kept him clean among vulgar temptations; his clear
perceptions were never blinded by selfish sophistry. Meantime his
feeling for Susy remained unchanged. Pride had kept him from seeking the
Peytons. His present visit was as unpremeditated as Peyton's invitation
had been unlooked for by him. Yet he had not allowed himself to be
deceived. He knew that this courtesy was probably due to the change in
his fortune, although he had hoped it might have been some change in
their opinion brought about by Susy. But he would at least see
her again, not in the pretty, half-clandestine way she had thought
necessary, but openly and as her equal.

In his rapid ride he seemed to have suddenly penetrated the peaceful
calm of the night. The restless irritation of the afternoon trade winds
had subsided; the tender moonlight had hushed and tranquilly possessed
the worried plain; the unending files of wild oats, far spaced and
distinct, stood erect and motionless as trees; something of the sedate
solemnity of a great forest seemed to have fallen upon their giant
stalks. There was no dew. In that light, dry air, the heavier dust no
longer rose beneath the heels of his horse, whose flying shadow passed
over the field like a cloud, leaving no trail or track behind it. In the
preoccupation of his thought and his breathless retrospect, the young
man had ridden faster than he intended, and he now checked his panting
horse. The influence of the night and the hushed landscape stole over
him; his thoughts took a gentler turn; in that dim, mysterious horizon
line before him, his future seemed to be dreamily peopled with airy,
graceful shapes that more or less took the likeness of Susy. She was
bright, coquettish, romantic, as he had last seen her; she was older,