as blue as hers, and none could have been bluer.  His skin was almost as fair and smooth as hers, his manner as gentle and kind, his voice as soft and his smile as sweet.  He was elegantly dressed, as he always was, his fine long coat of forest green broadcloth had a wide velvet collar and large gold buttons.  His velvet knee-breeches and the wide riband which tied his queue were of the same rich shade of dark green.  The most delicate ruffles filled the front of his swan’s-down vest and fell over his hands, which were remarkably white and small and taper-fingered, like a fine lady’s.  His white silk stockings and his low shoes were held by silver buckles.  So looked Philip Alston, Gentleman,—­and so he was called,—­as he stood in the great room of Cedar House on that night of October, nearly a hundred years ago.  And thus he is described in the few rare old histories which touch the romance of this region when he ruled it like a king, by the power of his intelligence and the might of his will.

He was foremost in the politics of the time as in everything else, and he and William Pressley had been discussing this subject at the moment of Ruth’s appearance, which had interrupted their conversation.  Philip Alston had forgotten the unfinished topic, but William Pressley had not.  He, also, had been pleased to look on for a while at the girl’s radiant delight; and he, also, had enjoyed the charming scene.  But there was a lull now, and he at once turned back to the matter in which he was most deeply interested.  Ambition for political preferment was the theme which most absorbed his mind, and ambition was the one thing which could always light a spark of fire in his cold, hard, shallow hazel eyes.  This was not for the reason that he cared especially for politics in itself, which he did not.  But he turned to it in preference to warfare, since the choice of the ambitious young men of the wilderness lay between the two.  Politics seemed to him to open the surest and shortest road to the prominence which he craved above everything else.  He was one of those unfortunates who can never be happy on a level—­even with the highest—­and who must look down in order to be at all content with life.  Yet with this overweening and insatiable craving for distinction and prominence, he had been given no talent by which distinction may be won; had been granted no quality, mental, moral, or physical, by which he might rise above the mass of his fellows.  It was a cruel trick for Nature to play, and one that she plays far too often.  The sufferers from it are certainly far more to be pitied than blamed, and it is harmful only to the afflicted themselves, so long as it meets, or still expects, a measure of gratification.  When they are permitted to reach any height from which to look down, the terrible craving appears to be temporarily appeased; and they become kind, and even generous, to all who look up with willing, unwandering gaze.  It is only when the sufferers fail to reach any height,