intent on her letter, although she occasionally took a sip of coffee.

"Letter interesting, Olive?"

"Very."

Mr. Castlemaine looked steadily at his daughter and sighed. He was not a sad-looking man, even although he sighed. There was a merry twinkle in his keen grey eyes and a smile played around his mouth. Perhaps he sighed because his daughter reminded him of her mother, who was dead. Perhaps he remembered the fact that she was his only child, and that if she married he would be all alone. That he was proud of her there could be no doubt. No one could see the look he gave her without being sure of it; that he loved her very dearly was just as certain.

And indeed it was no wonder that this should be so, for Olive Castlemaine had for years been his only earthly joy and comfort. Especially was this so since she had left school. He had bestowed all his affection on her as a child, but when she returned home from Germany, after having received many honours both at St. Andrews and Girton, pride was added to his love.

When one goes amongst a large concourse of people there is generally one face, one personality that stands out clearly and distinctly from the rest. The great majority are commonplace, unnoteworthy; but there is generally one, if not more, who strikes the attention, and claims the interest of the observer. When you see such a one you begin to ask questions. You want to know his or her history, antecedents, or achievements. If you learn nothing of importance you are disappointed. You feel that you have been defrauded of something.

"With such a face, such a personality," you say, "he or she should do and be something out of the ordinary."

Olive Castlemaine was always the one in a crowd. People seldom passed her without wanting to have a second look. When she went into society, which was seldom, many questions were invariably asked about her. There might be more beautiful women present; there might be women who were noteworthy because of some book they had written or some picture they had painted, but they did not excite the interest which Olive Castlemaine excited. It was not because of any exceeding beauty of form or face. Not that nature had dealt niggardly towards her in this direction—quite the contrary; she had a finely formed face, and there were those who raved about the purity of her complexion and the glory of her "nut-brown hair." She was tall, and well formed too, and carried herself with grace. But it was not beauty of face and form that singled her out from the crowd. What it was I will not try and tell. I should only fail if I attempted. Beauty rightly understood is a spiritual thing, and is not dependent on contour of features or a brilliant complexion—it is in truth indefinable. A doll may be pretty, but it is not beautiful. Beauty is suggested rather than portrayed—it is something which lies behind the material. I have on rare occasions seen plain women who are beautiful. What has made them so I cannot tell, except that there has been what I call, for want of a better term, a spiritual essence, which has ennobled and glorified everything.

Looking at Olive Castlemaine's photograph, you would have said, "That is a fine, striking-looking girl." If you met her and talked with her, you would not use those words. Perhaps you would not try to describe her at all. You would be impressed by a sense of nobility, of spirituality, and you would be surprised if you heard of her doing anything mean and small. Indeed you would not believe it. Perhaps that was why strangers generally asked questions about her. For beauty which suggests truth, loveliness of mind, purity of soul, is of the rarest kind. And yet this beauty is possible to all.

"I say, Olive."

"Yes, father."

"Nearly finished?"

"Oh, please forgive me. I ought to be ashamed of myself, but it is an interesting letter."

"Who is it from?"

"From Bridget Osborne. We were together in Germany, you know."

"Bridget Osborne? Where does she live?"

"In Devonshire—Taviton Grange. Don't you remember?"

"Oh yes," said John Castlemaine with a smile. Then he added, "What a coincidence!"

"What is a coincidence?"

"Oh, my letter is from a man in Taviton."

"What letter?"

"The letter which led me to tell you that two men are coming here to dinner to-night."

"Oh, I had almost forgotten. Yes, I must tell Mrs. Bray. Half-past seven, I suppose."

"Yes; by the way, what makes your letter so interesting?"

"Well, Bridget's letters are always interesting. As you know, she writes well, and she has quite a gift in summing up people. You remember her letter about that French Count?"

"Very well. Yes, yes, it was very clever. Has some one else of note been staying at the Grange?"

"In a way, yes. At least she thinks he will be of note. Indeed she describes a very striking man."

"Who is he?"

"He is the candidate which her father has persuaded to fight Sir Charles Trefry at the next election."

John Castlemaine opened his eyes rather widely for a moment, then a rather amused look came upon his face.

"Tell me what she thinks about him," he said quietly.

Olive Castlemaine took up the letter she had placed on the table and began to search for the part which gave the description to which she had referred.

"There's a lot about the girls we met in Germany," went on Olive; "you'll not be interested in them. Oh, here it is. Listen: 'A very interesting guest has just left us. I am not sure whether I like him or no. Sometimes I think I do, and at others I am just as sure that I don't. He is the candidate who has been elected to fight Sir Charles Trefry, and father feels sure that he's bound to win. He came here to dinner last night, after which he addressed a meeting at the Taviton Public Hall, and then came back here again for the night. Of course father knows him very well, but, as I have always been away when he has been here before, this is the first time I have seen him. He arrived about six in the evening, and, owing to the meeting, we had to have an early dinner. The thing which was most remarkable about him before the meeting was his silence. He scarcely spoke a word. And yet I am sure that nothing escaped him. He has large grey eyes, which have a strange look in them. His face is very pale, and he looks all the more striking because he is cleanly shaven. As I said, he was very silent, and yet I felt interested in him. He impressed me as one of those strong, masterful men who compel people to do things against their wills. Of course father asked two or three people of local importance to meet him, and the quiet way in which he snubbed them without being rude—ay, and without their feeling that they were snubbed—amused me. I rarely go to these political meetings, but I was so interested that I wanted to hear him, and I went. Of course there was a great crowd, but I took very little notice of it; I was too intent upon studying Mr. Radford Leicester's face. I have heard him spoken of as a keen politician, but I never saw a man look so utterly bored. Especially was this so at the beginning of the meeting; a little later a smile of amused contempt came upon his face as he listened to eulogiums on "our historic party." When he got up to speak, he looked disgusted at the way the people cheered, and although the former part of his speech was clever, there was nothing striking about it. He did not seem to think the audience worth an effort. Presently, however, one of the cleverest men in the town—he belonged to the other side—got up and heckled him. Then the fun began. He seemed to realise that he was on his mettle, and the way he pulverised our "local clever man" will be the talk of the town for a week of Sundays. Never before did I realise the influence of a strong, clever man. He simply played with the audience and swayed the people at will.

"'When we got home after the meeting he was again very silent for some time; then the vicar of our parish called, and again the fun