Mrs. Yorke concluded her letter, and two mornings later the Yorkes took the old two-horse stage that plied between the Springs and the little grimy railway-station, ten miles away at the foot of the Ridge, and metaphorically shook the dust of Ridgely from their feet, though, from their appearance when they reached the railway, it, together with much more, must have settled on their shoulders.

The road passed the little frame school-house, and as the stage rattled by, the young school-teacher’s face changed.  He stood up and looked out of the window with a curious gaze in his burning eyes.  Suddenly his face lit up:  a little head under a very pretty hat had nodded to him.  He bowed low, and went back to his seat with a new expression.  That bow chained him for years.  He almost forgave her high-headed mother.

Alice bore away with her a long and tragic letter which she did not think it necessary to confide to her mother at this time, in view of the fact that the writer declared that in his present condition he felt bound to recognize her mother’s right to deny his request to see her; but that he meant to achieve such success that she would withdraw her prohibition, and to return some day and lay at her feet the highest honors life could give.

A woman who has discarded a man is, perhaps, nearer loving him just afterwards than ever before.  Certainly Miss Alice Yorke thought more tenderly of Gordon Keith when she found herself being borne away from him than she had ever done during the weeks she had known him.

It is said that a broken heart is a most valuable possession for a young man.  Perhaps, it was so to Keith.

The rest of the session dragged wearily for him.  But he worked like fury.  He would succeed.  He would rise.  He would show Mrs. Yorke who he was.

Mrs. Yorke, having reached home, began at once to lead her daughter back to what she esteemed a healthier way of thinking than she had fallen into.  This opportunity came in the shape of a college commencement with a consequent boat-race, and all the gayeties that this entailed.

Mrs. Yorke was, in her way, devoted to her daughter, and had a definite and what she deemed an exalted ambition for her.  This meant that she should be the best-dressed girl in society, should be a belle, and finally should make the most brilliant marriage of her set—­to wit, the wealthiest marriage.  She had dreamed at times of a marriage that should make her friends wild with envy—­of a title, a high title.  Alice had beauty, style, wealth, and vivacity; she would grace a coronet, and mamma would be “Madam, the Countess’s mother.”  But mamma encountered an unexpected obstacle.

When Mrs. Yorke, building her air-castles, casually let fall her idea of a title for Alice, there was a sudden and unexpected storm from an unlooked-for quarter.  Dennis Yorke, usually putty in his wife’s hands, had two or three prejudices that were principles with him.  As to these he was rock.  His daughter was his idol.