“I can’t make it out.  Phrony she likes him.”

Keith fastened his gaze on something out of the window.

“I don’t know him,” pursued the squire; “But I don’t think—­he’d suit Phrony.  His ways ain’t like ours, and—.”  He lapsed into reflection, and Keith, with his eyes still fastened on something outside the window, sighed to think of the old man’s innocence.  That he should imagine that Wickersham had any serious idea of marrying the granddaughter of a backwoods magistrate!  The old squire broke the silence.

“You don’t suppose he could be hankerin’ after Phrony for her property, do you?”

“No, I do not,” said Keith, positively, relieved that at last a question was put which he could answer directly.

“Because she ain’t got any,” asserted the squire.  “She’s got prospects; but I’m goin’ to remove them.  It don’t do for a young woman to have too much prospects.  I’m goin’ to sell that land and git it down in cash, where I can do what I want with it.  And I want you to take charge of it for me.”

This, then, was the real object of his visit.  He wanted Keith to take charge of his properties.  It was a tempting offer to make Keith.  The old man had been a shrewd negotiator.

There is no success so sweet as that which comes to a young man.

That night Keith spent out under the stars.  Success had come.  And its other name was Alice Yorke.

The way before Keith still stretched steep enough, but the light was on it, the sunshine caught peak after peak high up among the clouds themselves, and crowning the highest point, bathed in perpetual sunlight, was the image of Alice Yorke.

Alice Yorke had been abroad now for some time; but he had followed her.  Often when his work was done he had locked his door and shut himself in from the turmoil of the bustling, noisy throng outside to dream of her—­to read and study that he might become worthy of her.

He had just seen by the papers that Alice Yorke had returned.

She had escaped the dangers of a foreign service; but, by the account, she was the belle of the season at the watering-place which she was honoring with her presence.  As he read the account, a little jealousy crept into the satisfaction which he had felt as he began.  Mr. Lancaster was spoken of too pointedly; and there was mention of too many yacht-parties and entertainments in which their names appeared together.

In fact, the forces exerted, against Alice Yorke had begun to tell.  Her mother, overawed by her husband’s determination, had reluctantly abandoned her dreams of a foreign title with its attendant honors to herself, and, of late, had turned all her energies to furthering the suit of Mr. Lancaster.  It would be a great establishment that he would give Alice, and no name in the country stood higher.  He was the soul of honor, personal and commercial; and in an age when many were endeavoring to amass great fortunes and make a dazzling display, he was content to live modestly, and was known for his broad-minded philanthropy.  What did it matter that he was considerably older than Alice? reflected Mrs. Yorke.  Mrs. Creamer and half the mothers she knew would give their eyes to secure him for their daughters; and certainly he had shown that he knew how to enter into Alice’s feelings.