next. But if you let her slip, boy"--and here he brought down the end of
his stick with a significant whack, upon the floor. "This I'll tell
you," he added, without finishing the broken sentence, "that whether
you're a rich man or a beggar, depends on yourself. The more you have,
the more you'll get; remember that! Bring me my brandy!"

Alfred Barton knew the exact value of his father's words. Having already
neglected, or, at least, failed to succeed, in regard to two matches
which his father had proposed, he understood the risk to his inheritance
which was implied by a third failure. And yet, looking at the subject
soberly, there was not the slightest prospect of success. Martha Deane
was the girl in the old man's mind, and an instinct, stronger than his
vanity, told him that she never would, or could, be his wife. But, in
spite of that, it must be his business to create a contrary impression,
and keep it alive as long as possible,--perhaps until--until--

We all know what was in his mind. Until the old man should die.




CHAPTER V.

GUESTS AT FAIRTHORN'S.


The Fairthorn farm was immediately north of Kennett Square. For the
first mile towards Unionville, the rich rolling fields which any
traveller may see, to this day, on either side of the road, belonged to
it. The house stood on the right, in the hollow into which the road