to Hemstead.

He stood in the door-way for a few moments and watched her graceful
figure with a strange and growing interest Whether saint or sinner,
this being so emphatically of flesh and blood was exceedingly
fascinating. The transition from the cloister-like seclusion of his
seminary life to this suburb of the gay world was almost bewildering;
and Lottie Marsden was one to stir the thin blood and withered
heart of the coldest anchorite. The faint perfume which she seemed
to exhale like a red rosebush in June was a pleasing exchange for
the rather musty and scholastic atmosphere in which he so long
had dwelt. As she glanced by as lightly as a bird on the wing, she
occasionally beamed upon him with one of her dangerous smiles. She
then little thought or cared that his honest and unoccupied heart
was as ready to thaw and blossom into love as a violet bank facing
the south in spring. He soon had a vague consciousness that he was
not doing just the prudent thing, and therefore rejoined his aunt
and uncle. Soon after he pleaded the weariness of his journey and
retired. As he was about to mount the stairs Lottie whirled by and
whispered, "Don't think me past praying for."

The slang she used in jest came to him, with his tendencies and
convictions, like an unconscious appeal and a divine suggestion.
He was utterly unconventional, and while readily unbending into
mirthfulness, he regarded life as an exceedingly serious thing.
As the eyes of artist and poet catch glimpses of beauty where to
others are only hard lines and plain surfaces, so strong religious
temperaments are quick to see providences, intimations, and leadings.

Hemstead went to his room with steps that deep thought rendered