constitution of his being he could not do, and he, beyond all others, understood his infirmity, suffering often almost mortal agony in view of it.  For some reason I have been led to reread this story, and, in spite of myself, that wretched young Scottish chieftain has become associated in my mind with Willard Merwyn.  He said to-night that his imagination was stronger than his will.  I can believe it from his words.  His dead father and others have become distinct presences to him.  In the same way he calls up before his fancy the horrors of a battle-field, and he finds that he has not the power to face them, that he cannot do it, no matter what the motives may be.  He feels that he would be simply overwhelmed with horror and faint-heartedness, and he is too prudent to risk the shame of exposure.”

“Well,” said her father, sighing, as if he were giving up a pleasing dream, “you have thought out an ingenious theory which, if true, explains Merwyn’s course, perhaps.  A woman’s intuitions are subtle, and often true, but somehow it does not satisfy me, even though I can recall some things which give color to your view.  Still, whatever be the explanation, all must be explained before we can give him more than ordinary courtesy.”

It soon became evident that Merwyn had gone to his country place, for his visits ceased.  The more Marian thought about him,—­and she did think a great deal,—­the more she was inclined to believe that her theory explained everything.  His very words, “You think me a coward,” became a proof, in her mind, that he was morbidly sensitive on this point, and ever conscious of his infirmity.  He was too ready to resent a fancied imputation on his courage.

She strove to dismiss him from her thoughts, but with only partial success.  He gave her the sense of being baffled, defeated.  What could be more natural than that a high-spirited young man should enter the army of his own free will?  He had not entered it even with her favor, possibly her love, as a motive.  Yet he sought her favor as if it were the chief consideration of existence.  With her theory, and her ideal of manhood, he was but the mocking shadow of a man, but so real, so nearly perfect, that she constantly chafed at the defect.  Even her father had been deeply impressed by the rare promise of his young life,—­a promise which she now believed could never be kept, although few might ever know it.

“I must be right in my view,” she said.  “He proves his loyalty by an unflagging interest in our arms, by the gift of thousands.  He is here, his own master.  He would not shun danger for the sake of his cold-hearted mother, from whom he seems almost estranged.  His sisters are well provided for, and do not need his care.  He does not live for the sake of pleasure, like many other young men.  Merciful Heaven!  I blush even to think the words, much more to speak them.  Why does he not go, unless his fear is greater than his love for me? why is he not with Lane and Strahan, unless he has a constitutional dread that paralyzes him?  He is the Scottish chieftain, MacIan, over again.  All I can do now is to pity him as one to whom Nature has been exceedingly cruel, for every fibre in my being shrinks from such a man.”