dead father's wishes, and
circumstances have proved that the dying man did not over-estimate the
worth of what he was leaving. But it has been a severe and distasteful
duty, and only the closest attention, the best judgment, and most wary
perseverance, have saved the family from ruin. He gives his advisers
full credit for their help and sympathy; but it has been a great
strain, and he is immensely relieved. The dissolution of the old firm
and the arrangement of the new one are matters for time, but happily he
will be out of that. Wilmarth and Eugene take the first, and the others
are quite capable of managing the last. He has a secret pity for
Wilmarth, and yet he knows he has been Eugene's worst enemy, that he
would not have scrupled at any ruin to attain his end. That he is
Marcia's husband he must always regret, and they have not yet reached
the end of dissensions.

Eugene drives slowly homeward, ruminating many matters. He has his
college education and various accomplishments, and in the course of a
month or so will have some money. He has no more taste for a profession
than for business; and though various phases of speculation look
tempting, he is well aware that he has not the brains to compete with
the trained athletes in this department. He can marry Pauline Murray,
and he will, no doubt, end by marrying some rich woman. He looks
covetously at Violet's fortune and calls himself hard names, but that
is plainly out of his reach. He could love Violet so dearly, with such
passion and fervor, but it is too late, and he sighs. She would like
him to marry Miss Murray; he will please her and Polly, who is
undeniably charming, and do extremely well for himself. Why not, then?
He cannot hang here on Floyd forever.

Polly is wandering through the grounds in the late summer afternoon,
her blue-lined parasol making an azure sky over her golden head, her
white dress draping her slender figure in a strikingly statuesque way.
She is the kind of girl to madden men and win admiration on the right
hand and on the left, and he _does_ like the women on whom the world
sets a signet of approval. No sweet domestic drudge for him, and if
Violet _has_ a fault, it is this tendency. When a man begins to
discover flaws in his ideal the enchantment is weakening.

He saunters up to her, and she blushes, while a touch of delight gleams
in her eye.

"Do you know," he begins, in a melancholy tone, "that I have sold my
birthright, but not