Her unfavorable impression was confirmed one cold November morning.  Passing down Madison Avenue, her casual attention was attracted by the opening of a door on the opposite side of the street.  She only permitted her swift glance to take in the fact that it was Merwyn who descended the steps and entered an elegant coupe driven by a man in a plain livery.  After the vehicle had been whirled away, curiosity prompted her to retrace her steps that she might look more closely at the residence of the man who had asked her to be his wife.  It was evidently one of the finest and most substantial houses on the avenue.

A frown contracted. the young girl’s brow as she muttered:  “He aspired to my hand,—­he, who fares sumptuously in that brown-stone palace while such men as Mr. Lane are fortunate to have a canvas roof over their heads.  He had the narrowness of mind to half-despise Arthur Strahan, who left equal luxury to face every danger and hardship.  Thank Heaven I planted some memories in his snobbish soul!”

Thereafter she avoided that locality.

In the evening, with words scarcely less bitter, she mentioned to her father the fact that she had seen Merwyn and his home.

Mr. Vosburgh smiled and said, “You have evidently lost all compunctions in regard to your treatment of the young fellow.”

“I have, indeed.  The battle of Antietam alone would place a Red Sea between me and any young American who can now live a life of selfish luxury.  Think how thousands of our brave men will sleep this stormy night on the cold, rain-soaked ground, and then think of his cold-blooded indifference to it all!”

“Why think of him at all, Marian?” her father asked, with a quizzical smile.

The color deepened slightly in her face as she replied:  “Why shouldn’t I think of him to some extent?  He has crossed my path in no ordinary way.  His attentions at first were humiliating, and he awakened an antipathy such as I never felt towards any one before.  He tried to belittle you, my friends, and the cause to which you are devoted.  Then, when I told him the truth about himself, he appeared to have manhood enough to comprehend it.  His words made me think of a man desperately wounded, and my sympathies were touched, and I felt that I had been unduly severe and all that.  In fact, I was overwrought, ill, morbid, conscience-stricken as I remembered my own past life, and he appeared to feel what I said so awfully that I couldn’t forget it.  I had silly dreams and hopes that he would assert his manhood and take a loyal part in the struggle.  But what has been his course?  So far as I can judge, it has been in keeping with his past.  Settling down to a life of ease and money-making here would be little better, in my estimation, than amusing himself abroad.  It would be simply another phase of following his own mood and inclinations; and I shall look upon his outburst and appeal as hysterical rather than passionate and sincere.”