"I think I understand it.
He has a true man's heart; and holds a great purpose in it.

I've seen men like that.

Not clergymen, I mean, but men with a great purpose." Then, after a moment's thought, she added: "But you ought to care for him better.

He does not look strong." "Strong!" I exclaimed quickly, with a queer feeling of resentment at my heart.

"He can do as much riding as any of us." "Still," she replied, "there's something in his face that would make his mother anxious." In spite of my repudiation of her suggestion, I found myself for the next few minutes thinking of how he would come exhausted and faint from his long rides, and I resolved that he must have a rest and change.
It was one of those early September days, the best of all in the western country, when the light falls less fiercely through a soft haze that seems to fill the air about you, and that grows into purple on the far hilltops.