fair; her eyes were dark and eloquent. Her
mouth was well formed; she was slender, graceful, and coquettish,
well-educated, and in every way, charming.

To this woman, John Randolph's heart went out in passionate, adoring
love. He might be bitter and sarcastic with others, but with her he
was gentleness itself. Others might know him as a man of affairs, keen
and logical, but to her he was only a lover.

Timid and hesitating at first, afraid perhaps of his fiery wooing,
Miss Ward kept him for some time in suspense. All the treasures of his
mind and soul were laid before her; that deep, eloquent voice which
moved the multitude to tears at its master's will was pleading with a
woman for her love.

What wonder that she yielded at last and promised to marry him? Then
for a time everything else was forgotten. The world lay before him to
be conquered when he might choose. Nothing would be too great for him
to accomplish--nothing impossible to that eager joyous soul enthroned
at last upon the greatest heights of human happiness. And then--there
was a change. He rode to her home one day, tying his horse outside as
was his wont. A little later he strode out, shaking like an aspen,
his face white in agony. He drew his knife from his pocket, cut the
bridle of his horse, dug his spurs into the quivering sides, and was
off like the wind. What battle was fought out on that wild ride is
known only to John Randolph and his God. What torture that fiery soul
went through, no human being can ever know. When he came back at
night, he was so changed that no one dared to speak to him.

He threw himself into the political arena in order to save his reason.
Often at midnight, he would rise from his uneasy bed, buckle on his
pistols, and ride like mad over the country, returning only when his
horse was spent. He never saw Miss Ward again, and she married Peyton
Randolph, the son of Edmund Randolph, who was Secretary of State under
Washington.

The entire affair is shrouded in mystery. There is not a letter, nor a
single scrap of paper, nor a shred of evidence upon which to base even
a presumption. The separation was final and complete, and the
white-hot metal of the man's nature was gradually moulded into that
strange eccentric being whose foibles are so well known.

Only once did Randolph lift even a corner of the veil. In a letter to
his dearest friend he spoke of her as:

"One I loved better than my own soul, or Him who created i