She scarcely touched his hand or looked at him as she turned away.  She was wounded to the heart; and the poor lad, putting a fearful curb upon himself, suffered her to leave him.  He did not even go down to the door to see the carriage leave, and in a few minutes the rattle of wheels across the stony street fell upon his ears like a last farewell.  Then, there being none to witness his weakness, he laid his head down upon the battered old desk, and wept as he had not wept since his childhood.  He had a proud spirit, and circumstances had made him morbidly sensitive.  He was very young to indulge in a man’s hopes and aspirations; but age is not always determined by years.  Already he had dreamed his dreams, had his visions of a glorious future, in which he should build up a home for himself.  Yet not for himself alone—­it could be no home unless light was given to it by her who had been the day-star of his boyhood.  The very loneliness and bitterness of his experience had caused his heart, capable of a strong and passionate affection, to centre with greater tenacity upon the gentle being who had shown to him the lovelier side of nature and life, and had awakened in him strivings after all that was highest and best.  But this morbid sensitiveness, which is the curse of every proud spirit, and turns even the sweets of life to ashes in the mouth, had him in bitter bondage.  He lashed himself with it, reminding himself constantly of his origin and his environment, and magnifying these into insuperable barriers which would for ever stand blankly in his way.  Although common-sense told him that there was no other course open to Gladys than to accept the kindness offered her by the lawyer and his wife, and though in his inmost better heart he did not doubt her, it pleased his harder mood to regard himself as being despised and trampled on; there was a certain luxury in the indulgence which afforded him a melancholy pain.  By and by, however, better thoughts came, as they always will if we give them the chance they seek.  Out of his fearful dejection arose a manlier, nobler spirit, which betrayed itself in his look and manner.  He rose from the stool, walked twice across the narrow office floor out to the warehouse, and finally down-stairs.  In a word, he took an inventory of the whole place, and it suddenly came home to him, with a new accession of hope and strength, that it was his—­that he was absolutely monarch of all he surveyed, and could make or mar it as he willed.  It was not a stupendous heritage, but to one nameless and unknown it was much.  Nay, it was his opportunity—­the tide in his affairs which might lead him on to fortune.  Wandering the length and breadth of his kingdom—­only a drysalter’s warehouse, but still his kingdom—­hope took to herself white wings again, and, fluttering over him, built for him many a castle in the air—­castles high enough to reach the skies.  Then and there Walter Hepburn took courage and began to face his life—­laid his plans, which had for its reward a maiden’s smile and a maiden’s heart.  And for these men have conquered the world before, and will again.  Love still rules, and will, thanks be to God, till the world is done.