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Keith explained that Mr. Rhodes was somewhere in Europe.

"Well, time enough. He'll come home sometime, an' them lands ain't
liable to move away. Yes, I likes some Yankees now pretty well; but,
Lord! I loves to git ahead of a Yankee! They're so kind o' patronizin'
to you. Well," he said, rising, "I thought I'd come up and talk to you
about it. Some day I'll git you to look into matters a leetle for me."

The next day Keith received Mr. Wickersham's letter requesting him to
come to New York. Keith's heart gave a bound.

The image of Alice Yorke flashed into his mind, as it always did when
any good fortune came to him. Many a night, with drooping eyes and
flagging energies, he had sat up and worked with renewed strength
because she sat on the other side of the hot lamp.

It is true that communication between them had been but rare. Mrs. Yorke
had objected to any correspondence, and he now began to see, though
dimly, that her objection was natural. But from time to time, on
anniversaries, he had sent her a book, generally a book of poems with
marked passages in it, and had received in reply a friendly note from
the young lady, over which he had pondered, and which he had always
treasured and filed away with tender care.

Keith took the stage that night for Eden on his way to New York. As they
drove through the pass in the moonlight he felt as if he were soaring
into a new life. He was already crossing the mountains beyond which lay
the Italy of his dreams.

He stopped on his way to see his father. The old gentleman's face glowed
with pleasure as he looked at Gordon and found how he had developed.
Life appeared to be reopening for him also in his son.

"I will give you a letter to an old friend of mine, John Templeton. He
has a church in New York. But it is not one of the fashionable ones; for

"'Unpractised he to fawn or seek for power
By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour:
Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,
More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.'

"You will find him a safe adviser. You will call also and pay my respects
to Mr. and Mrs. Wentworth."

On his way, owing to a break in the railroad, Keith had to change his
train at a small town not far from New York. Among the passengers was an
old lady, simply and quaintly dressed, who had taken the train somewhere
near Philadelphia. She was travelling quite alone, and appeared to be
much hampered by her bags and parcels. The sight of an old woman, like
that of a little girl, always softened Keith's heart. Something always
awoke in him that made him feel tender. When Keith first observed this
old lady, the entire company was streaming along the platform in that
haste which always marks the transfer of passengers from one train to
another. No one appeared to notice her, and under the weight of her bags
and bundles she was gradually dropping to the rear of the crowd. As
Keith, bag in hand, swung past her with the rest, he instinctively
turned and offered his services to help carry her parcels. She panted
her thanks, but declined briefly, declaring that she should do
very well.

"You may be doing very well," Keith said pleasantly, "but you will do
better if you will let me help you."

"No, thank you." This time more firmly than before. "I am quite used to
helping myself, and am not old enough for that yet. I prefer to carry my
own baggage," she added with emphasis.

"It is not the question of age, I hope, that gives me the privilege of
helping a lady," said Keith. He was already trying to relieve her of her
largest bag and one or two bundles.

A keen glance from a pair of very bright eyes was shot at him.

"Well, I will let you take that side of that bag and this bundle--no;
that one. Now, don't run away from me."

"No; I will promise not," said Keith, laughing; and relieved of that
much of her burden, the old lady stepped out more briskly than she had
been doing. When they finally reached a car, the seats were nearly all
filled. There was one, however, beside a young woman at the far end, and
this Keith offered to the old lady, who, as he stowed her baggage close
about her, made him count the pieces carefully. Finding the tale
correct, she thanked him with more cordiality than she had shown before,
and Keith withdrew to secure a seat for himself. As, however, the car
was full, he stood up in the rear of the coach, waiting until some
passengers might alight at a way-station. The first seat that became
vacant was one immediately behind the old lady, who had now fallen into
a cheerful conversation with the young woman beside her.

"What do you do when strangers offer to take your bags?" Keith heard her
asking as he seated himself.

"Why, I don't know; they don't often ask. I never let them do it," said
the young woman, firmly.

"A wise rule, too. I have heard that that is the way nowadays that they
rob women travelling alone. I had a young man insist on taking my bag
back there; but I am very suspicious of these civil young men." She
leaned over and counted her parcels again. Keith could not help laughing
to himself. As she sat up she happened to glance around, and he caught
her eye. He saw her clutch her companion and whisper to her, at which
the latter glanced over her shoulder and gave him a look that was almost
a stare. Then the two conferred together, while Keith chuckled with
amusement. What they were saying, had Keith heard it, would have amused
him still more than the other.

"There he is now, right behind us," whispered the old lady.

"Why, he doesn't look like a robber."

"They never do. I have heard they never do. They are the most dangerous
kind. Of course, a robber who looked it would be arrested on sight."

"But he is very good-looking," insisted the younger woman, who had, in
the meantime, taken a second glance at Keith, who pretended to be
immersed in a book.

"Well, so much the worse. They are the very worst kind. Never trust a
good-looking young stranger, my dear. They may be all right in romances,
but never in life."

As her companion did not altogether appear to take this view, the old
lady half turned presently, and taking a long look down the other side
of the car, to disarm Keith of any suspicion that she might be looking
at him, finally let her eyes rest on his face, quite accidentally, as it
were. A moment later she was whispering to her companion.

"I am sure he is watching us. I am going to ask you to stick close
beside me when we get to New York until I find a hackney-coach."

"Have you been to New York often?" asked the girl, smiling.

"I have been there twice in the last thirty years; but I spent several
winters there when I was a young girl. I suppose it has changed a good
deal in that time?"

The young lady also supposed that it had changed in that time, and
wondered why Miss Brooke--the name the other had given--did not come to
New York oftener.

"You see, it is such an undertaking to go now," said the old lady.
"Everything goes with such a rush that it takes my breath away. Why,
three trains a day each way pass near my home now. One of them actually
rushes by in the most impetuous and disdainful way. When I was young we
used to go to the station at least an hour before the train was due, and
had time to take out our knitting and compose our thoughts; but now one
has to be at the station just as promptly as if one were going to
church, and if you don't get on the train almost before it has stopped,
the dreadful thing is gone before you know it. I must say, it is very
destructive to one's nerves."

Her companion laughed.

"I don't know what you will think when you get to New York."

"Think! I don't expect to think at all. I shall just shut my eyes and
trust to Providence."

"Your friends will meet you there, I suppose?"

"I wrote them two weeks ago that I should be there to-day, and then my
cousin wrote me to let her know the train, and I replied, telling her
what train I expected to take. I would never have come if I had imagined
we were going to have this trouble."

The girl reassured her by telling her that even if her friends did not
meet her, she would put her in the way of reaching them safely. And in a
little while they drew into the station.

Keith's first impression of New York was dazzling to him. The rush, the
hurry, stirred him and filled him with a sense of power. He felt that
here was the theatre of action for him.

The offices of Wickersham & Company were in one of the large buildings
down-town. The whole floor was filled with pens and railed-off places,
beyond which lay the private offices of the firm. Mr. Wickersham was
"engaged," and Keith had to wait for an hour or two before he could
secure an interview with him. When at length he was admitted to Mr.
Wickersham's inner office, he was received with some cordiality. His
father was asked after, and a number of questions about Gumbolt were put
to him. Then Mr. Wickersham came to the point. He had a high regard for
his father, he said, and having heard that Gordon was living in Gumbolt,
where they had some interests, it had occurred to him that he might
possibly be able to give him a position. The salary would not be large
at first, but if he showed himself capable it might lead to
something better.

Keith was thrilled, and declared that what he most wanted was work and
opportunity to show that he was able to work. Mr. Wickersham was sure of
this, and informed him briefly that it was outdoor work that they had
for him--"the clearing up of titles and securing of such lands as we may
wish to obtain," he added.

This was satisfactory to Keith, and he said so.

Mr. Wickersham's shrewd eyes had a gleam of content in them.

"Of course, our interest will be your first consideration?" he said.

"Yes, sir; I should try and make it so."

"For instance," proceeded Mr. Wickersham, "there are certain lands lying
near our lands, not of any special value; but still you can readily
understand that as we are running a railroad through the mountains, and
are expending large sums of money, it is better that we should control
lands through which our line will pass."

Keith saw this perfectly. "Do you know the names of any of the owners?"
he inquired. "I am familiar with some of the lands about there."

Mr. Wickersham pondered. Keith was so ingenuous and eager that there
could be no harm in coming to the point.

"Why, yes; there is a man named Rawson that has some lands or some sort
of interest in lands that adjoin ours. It might be well for us to
control those properties."

Keith's countenance fell.

"It happens that I know something of those lands."

"Yes? Well, you might possibly take those properties along with others?"

"I could certainly convey any proposition you wish to make to Mr.
Rawson, and should be glad to do so," began Keith.

"We should expect you to use your best efforts to secure these and all
other lands that we wish," interrupted Mr. Wickersham, speaking with
sudden sharpness. "When we employ a man we expect him to give us all his
services, and not to be half in our employ and half in that of the man
we are fighting."

The change in his manner and tone was so great and so unexpected that
Keith was amazed. He had never been spoken to before quite in this way.
He, however, repressed his feeling.

"I should certainly render you the best service I could," he said; "but
you would not expect me to say anything to Squire Rawson that I did not
believe? He has talked with me about these lands, and he knows their
value just as well as you do."

Mr. Wickersham looked at him with a cold light in his eyes, which
suddenly recalled Ferdy to Keith.

"I don't think that you and I will suit each other, young man," he said.

Keith's face flushed; he rose. "I don't think we should, Mr. Wickersham.
Good morning." And turning, he walked out of the room with his head
very high.

As he passed out he saw Ferdy. He was giving some directions to a
clerk, and his tone was one that made Keith glad he was not under him.

"Haven't you any brains at all?" Keith heard him say.

"Yes, but I did not understand you."

"Then you are a fool," said the young man.

Just then Keith caught his eye and spoke to him. Ferdy only nodded
"Hello!" and went on berating the clerk.

Keith walked about the streets for some time before he could soothe his
ruffled feelings and regain his composure. How life had changed for him
in the brief interval since he entered Mr. Wickersham's office! Then his
heart beat high with hope; life was all brightness to him; Alice Yorke
was already won. Now in this short space of time his hopes were all
overthrown. Yet, his instinct told him that if he had to go through the
interview again he would do just as he had done.

He felt that his chance of seeing Alice would not be so good early in
the day as it would be later in the afternoon; so he determined to
deliver first the letter which his father had given him to Dr.
Templeton.

The old clergyman's church and rectory stood on an ancient street over
toward the river, from which wealth and fashion had long fled. His
parish, which had once taken in many of the well-to-do and some of the
wealthy, now embraced within its confines a section which held only the
poor. But, like an older and more noted divine, Dr. Templeton could say
with truth that all the world was his parish; at least, all were his
parishioners who were needy and desolate.

The rectory was an old-fashioned, substantial house, rusty with age, and
worn by the stream of poverty that had flowed in and out for many years.

When Keith mounted the steps the door was opened by some one without
waiting for him to ring the bell, and he found the passages and front
room fairly filled with a number of persons whose appearance bespoke
extreme poverty.

The Doctor was "out attending a meeting, but would be back soon," said
the elderly woman, who opened the door. "Would the gentleman wait?"

Just then the door opened and some one entered hastily. Keith was
standing with his back to the door; but he knew by the movement of those
before him, and the lighting up of their faces, that it was the Doctor
himself, even before the maid said: "Here he is now."

He turned to find an old man of medium size, in a clerical dress quite
brown with age and weather, but whose linen was spotless. His brow under
his snow-white hair was lofty and calm; his eyes were clear and kindly;
his mouth expressed both firmness and gentleness; his whole face was
benignancy itself.

His eye rested for a moment on Keith as the servant indicated him, and
then swept about the room; and with little more than a nod to Keith he
passed him by and entered the waiting-room. Keith, though a little
miffed at being ignored by him, had time to observe him as he talked to
his other visitors in turn. He manifestly knew his business, and
appeared to Keith, from the scraps of conversation he heard, to know
theirs also. To some he gave encouragement; others he chided; but to all
he gave sympathy, and as one after another went out their faces
brightened.

When he was through with them he turned and approached Keith with his
hands extended.

"You must pardon me for keeping you waiting so long; these poor people
have nothing but their time, and I always try to teach them the value of
it by not keeping them waiting."

"Certainly, sir," said Keith, warmed in the glow of his kindly heart. "I
brought a letter of introduction to you from my father, General Keith."

The smile that this name brought forth made Keith the old man's friend
for life.

"Oh! You are McDowell Keith's son. I am delighted to see you. Come back
into my study and tell me all about your father."

When Keith left that study, quaint and old-fashioned as were it and its
occupant, he felt as though he had been in a rarer atmosphere. He had
not dreamed that such a man could be found in a great city. He seemed to
have the heart of a boy, and Keith felt as if he had known him all his
life. He asked Gordon to return and dine with him, but Gordon had a
vision of sitting beside Alice Yorke at dinner that evening
and declined.



CHAPTER XIII

KEITH IN NEW YORK

Keith and Norman Wentworth had, from time to time, kept up a
correspondence, and from Dr. Templeton's Keith went to call on Norman
and his mother.

Norman, unfortunately, was now absent in the West on business, but Keith
saw his mother.

The Wentworth mansion was one of the largest and most dignified houses
on the fine old square--a big, double mansion. The door, with its large,
fan-shaped transom and side-windows, reminded Keith somewhat of the hall
door at Elphinstone, so that he had quite a feeling of old association
as he tapped with the eagle knocker. The hall was not larger than at
Elphinstone, but was more solemn, and Keith had never seen such palatial
drawing-rooms. They stretched back in a long vista. The heavy mahogany
furniture was covered with the richest brocades; the hangings were of
heavy crimson damask. Even the walls were covered with rich crimson
damask-satin. The floor was covered with rugs in the softest colors,
into which, as Keith followed the solemn servant, his feet sank deep,
giving him a strange feeling of luxuriousness. A number of fine pictures
hung on the walls, and richly bound books lay on the shirting tables
amid pieces of rare bric-a-brac.

This was the impression received from the only glance he had time to
give the room. The next moment a lady rose from behind a tea-table
placed in a nook near a window at the far end of the spacious room. As
Gordon turned toward her she came forward. She gave him a cordial
hand-shake and gracious words of welcome that at once made Keith feel at
home. Turning, she started to offer him a chair near her table, but
Keith had instinctively gone behind her chair and was holding it
for her.

"It is so long since I have had the chance," he said.

As she smiled up at him her face softened. It was a high-bred face, not
always as gentle as it was now, but her smile was charming.

"You do not look like the little, wan boy I saw that morning in bed, so
long ago. Do you remember?"

"I should say I did. I think I should have died that morning but for
you. I have never forgotten it a moment since." The rising color in his
cheeks took away the baldness of the speech.

She bowed with the most gracious smile, the color stealing up into her
cheeks and making her look younger.

"I am not used to such compliments. Young men nowadays do not take the
trouble to flatter old ladies."

Her face, though faded, still bore the unmistakable stamp of
distinction. Calm, gray eyes and a strong mouth and chin recalled
Norman's face. The daintiest of caps rested on her gray hair like a
crown, and several little ringlets about her ears gave the charm of
quaintness to the patrician face. Her voice was deep and musical. When
she first spoke it was gracious rather than cordial; but after the
inspective look she had given him it softened, and from this time Keith
felt her warmth.

The easy, cordial, almost confidential manner in which she soon began to
talk to him made Keith feel as if they had been friends always, and in a
moment, in response to a question from her, he was giving quite frankly
his impression of the big city: of its brilliance, its movement, its
rush, that keyed up the nerves like the sweep of a swift torrent.

"It almost takes my breath away," he said. "I feel as if I were on the
brink of a torrent and had an irresistible desire to jump into it and
swim against it."

She looked at the young man in silence for a moment, enjoying his
sparkling eyes, and then her face grew grave.

"Yes, it is interesting to get the impression made on a fresh young
mind. But so many are dashed to pieces, it appears to me of late to be a
maelstrom that engulfs everything in its resistless and terrible sweep.
Fortune, health, peace, reputation, all are caught and swept away; but
the worst is its heartlessness--and its emptiness."

She sighed so deeply that the young man wondered what sorrow could touch
her, intrenched and enthroned in that beautiful mansion, surrounded by
all that wealth and taste and affection could give. Years afterwards,
that picture of the old-time gentlewoman in her luxurious home came
back to him.

Just then a cheery voice was heard calling outside:

"Cousin?--cousin?--Matildy Carroll, where are you?"

It was the voice of an old lady, and yet it had something in it familiar
to Keith.

Mrs. Wentworth rose, smiling.

"Here I am in the drawing-room," she said, raising her voice the least
bit. "It is my cousin, a dear old friend and schoolmate," she explained
to Keith. "Here I am. Come in here." She advanced to the door,
stretching out her hand to some one who was coming down the stair.

"Oh, dear, this great, grand house will be the death of me yet!"
exclaimed the other lady, as she slowly descended.

"Why, it is not any bigger than yours," protested Mrs. Wentworth.

"It's twice as large, and, besides, I was born in that and learned all
its ups and downs and passages and corners when I was a child, just as I
learned the alphabet. But this house! It is as full of devious ways and
pitfalls as the way in 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and I would never learn it
any more than I could the multiplication table. Why, that second-floor
suite you have given me is just like six-times-nine. When you first put
me in there I walked around to learn my way, and, on my word, I thought
I should never get back to my own room. I thought I should have to
sleep in a bath-tub. I escaped from the bath-room only to land in the
linen-closet. That was rather interesting. Then when I had calculated
all your sheets and pillow-cases, I got out of that to what I recognized
as my own room. No! it was the broom-closet--eight-times-seven! That was
the only familiar thing I saw. I could have hugged those brooms. But, my
dear, I never saw so many brooms in my life! No wonder you have to have
all those servants. I suppose some of them are to sweep the other
servants up. But you really must shut off those apartments and just give
me one little room to myself; or, now that I have escaped from the
labyrinth, I shall put on my bonnet and go straight home."

All this was delivered from the bottom step with a most amusing gravity.

"Well, now that you have escaped, come in here," said Mrs. Wentworth,
laughing. "I want a friend of mine to know you--a young man--"

"A gentleman!"

"Yes; a young gentleman from--"

"My dear!" exclaimed the other lady. "I am not fit to see a young
gentleman--I haven't on my new cap. I really could not."

"Oh, yes, you can. Come in. I want you to know him, too. He
is--m--m--m--"

This was too low for Keith to hear. The next second Mrs. Wentworth
turned and reentered the room, holding by the hand Keith's old lady of
the train.

As she laid her eyes on Keith, she stopped with a little shriek, shut
both eyes tight, and clutched Mrs. Wentworth's arm.

"My dear, it's my robber!"

"It's what?"

"My robber! He's the young man I told you of who was so suspiciously
civil to me on the train. I can never look him in the face--never!"
Saying which, she opened her bright eyes and walked straight up to
Keith, holding out her hand. "Confess that you are a robber and
save me."

Keith laughed and took her hand.

"I know you took me for one." He turned to Mrs. Wentworth and described
her making him count her bundles.

"You will admit that gentlemen were much rarer on that train than
ruffians or those who looked like ruffians?" insisted the old lady,
gayly. "I came through the car, and not one soul offered me a seat. You
deserve all the abuse you got for being so hopelessly unfashionable as
to offer any civility to a poor, lonely, ugly old woman."

"Abby, Mr. Keith does not yet know who you are. Mr. Keith, this is my
cousin, Miss Brooke."

"Miss Abigail Brooke, spinster," dropping him a quaint little curtsy.

So this was little Lois's old aunt, Dr. Balsam's sweetheart--the girl
who had made him a wanderer; and she was possibly the St. Abigail of
whom Alice Yorke used to speak!

The old lady turned to Mrs. Wentworth.

"He is losing his manners; see how he is staring. What did I tell you?
One week in New York is warranted to break any gentleman of
good manners."

"Oh, not so bad as that," said Mrs. Wentworth. "Now you sit down there
and get acquainted with each other."

So Keith sat down by Miss Brooke, and she was soon telling him of her
niece, who, she said, was always talking of him and his father.

"Is she as pretty as she was as a child?" Keith asked.

"Yes--much too pretty; and she knows it, too," smiled the old lady. "I
have to hold her in with a strong hand, I tell you. She has got her head
full of boys already."

Other callers began to appear just then. It was Mrs. Wentworth's day,
and to call on Mrs. Wentworth was in some sort the cachet of good
society. Many, it was true, called there who were not in "society" at
all,--serene and self-contained old residents, who held themselves above
the newly-rich who were beginning to crowd "the avenues" and force
their way with a golden wedge,--and many who lived in splendid houses on
the avenue had never been admitted within that dignified portal. They
now began to drop in, elegantly dressed women and handsomely appointed
girls. Mrs. Wentworth received them all with that graciousness that was
her native manner. Miss Brooke, having secured her "new cap," was seated
at her side, her faded face tinged with rising color, her keen eyes
taking in the scene with quite as much avidity as Gordon's. Gordon had
fallen back quite to the edge of the group that encircled the hostess,
and was watching with eager eyes in the hope that, among the visitors
who came in in little parties of twos and threes, he might find the face
for which he had been looking. The name Wickersham presently fell on
his ear.