Lot Gordon had been only half right in his analysis of his cousin's
wooing. When Burr sat with his arm around this maiden's waist, with
his face bent tenderly down towards the soft, pink cheek on his
shoulder, this sweetness near at hand was wellnigh sufficient for
him, and Dorothy's shy murmur of love in his ear overcame largely the
memory of the other's wonderful song. A bee cares only for the honey
and not for the flower, therefore one flower is as dear to him as
another; and so it is with many a lover when he gets fairly to
tasting love. The memory of the rose before fades, even if he never
wore it. Then, too, Burr Gordon had a sense of approbation from his
shrewder self which sustained him. This Dorothy Fair, the minister's
daughter, of gentle New England lineage, the descendant of
college-learned men, and of women who had held themselves with a fine
dignity and mild reserve in the village society, the sole heiress of
what seemed a goodly property to the simple needs of the day,
appealed to his reason as well as his heart. He remained until near
midnight, while the old black woman crouched with the patience of a
watching animal outside the door, and he wooed Dorothy Fair with
ardor and delight, although her softly affectionate kisses were to
Madelon Hautville's as the fall of snow-flakes to drops of warm
honey. And although after he had gone home and fallen asleep his
dreams were mixed, still when he waked with the image of Madelon
between himself and Dorothy, because sleep had set his heart free, it
was still with that sense of approbation.

Madelon Hautville was not considered a fair match for a young man who
had claims to ambition. The Hautville family held a peculiar place in
public estimation. They belonged not to any defined stratum of the
village society, but formed rather a side ledge, a cropping, of quite
another kind, at which people looked askance. One reason undoubtedly