ut what he had done; he decided
to drive over to Colonel Hamilton Clay's and call upon his daughter
Rosamond.

He had tried it once or twice before. She had sent word she was not at
home, then made it a point as he drove away to show herself at a door
or window, so he might know that another call was not expected. But this
species of reception did not deter Caleb or penetrate the armor of his
conceit. It was impossible for him to believe that Miss Clay, or any
other woman, might not find his attentions desirable.

As he drove up before the old Clay homestead, which had been the
birthplace of a General, a Governor and an Ambassador, Rosamond, reading
near an upper window, saw Mose, the stable man, take his horse. She
thought: "Here comes that conceited boor, Caleb Saylor, to see me again;
I shall send word I am not at home; * * * but it is dreadfully dull this
afternoon, no one else seems to be coming, this book is the worst ever,
he might prove entertaining; I'm twenty-nine and can't be so particular;
I'll go down and see how the clown talks."

"Well, Mr. Saylor, it has been quite a time since you called. Take this
seat," and Rosamond sat down on the other end of a large hair-cloth
sofa, where her Aunt Margaret had sat and entertained her Sunday
afternoon visitors more than thirty years before.

She was the same queenly, thrilling Rosamond that John Cornwall, ten
years before, had loved for a few days. Her beauty was certainly none
the less; her maturer form, more charming, was becomingly exhibited in a
closely fitting dark blue gown.

After a few commonplace remarks, Caleb Saylor made himself the sole
topic of his own conversation. This was the subject nearest his heart
and one upon which he elaborated with minuteness and eloquence. As she
looked at and listened to him the thought at first unwelcome, entered
her mind that here was a man she might have, and without effort, for a
husband. And as she listened to his tale of "I done this" and "I done
that" and "I will do this and that" she thought how she, a woman of
tact and judgment and refinement, might take into her hands this thing
and, in a sense, make it plastic clay, and use its elements of life, and
power, and energy, and unscrupulousness, and nerve, and egotism, and
mountain courage, and almost make a man like her great grandfather.

The experiment was a fitting opportunity for an ambitious and courageous
woman who, though she might not find full measure of