Philip sat down amid the ruins, and almost wished he were buried in them.  How distant Ruth was now from him, now, when she might need him most.  How changed was all the Philadelphia world, which had hitherto stood for the exemplification of happiness and prosperity.

He still had faith that there was coal in that mountain.  He made a picture of himself living there a hermit in a shanty by the tunnel, digging away with solitary pick and wheelbarrow, day after day and year after year, until he grew gray and aged, and was known in all that region as the old man of the mountain.  Perhaps some day—­he felt it must be so some day—­he should strike coal.  But what if he did?  Who would be alive to care for it then?  What would he care for it then?  No, a man wants riches in his youth, when the world is fresh to him.  He wondered why Providence could not have reversed the usual process, and let the majority of men begin with wealth and gradually spend it, and die poor when they no longer needed it.

Harry went back to the city.  It was evident that his services were no longer needed.  Indeed, he had letters from his uncle, which he did not read to Philip, desiring him to go to San Francisco to look after some government contracts in the harbor there.

Philip had to look about him for something to do; he was like Adam; the world was all before him whereto choose.  He made, before he went elsewhere, a somewhat painful visit to Philadelphia, painful but yet not without its sweetnesses.  The family had never shown him so much affection before; they all seemed to think his disappointment of more importance than their own misfortune.  And there was that in Ruth’s manner—­in what she gave him and what she withheld—­that would have made a hero of a very much less promising character than Philip Sterling.

Among the assets of the Bolton property, the Ilium tract was sold, and Philip bought it in at the vendue, for a song, for no one cared to even undertake the mortgage on it except himself.  He went away the owner of it, and had ample time before he reached home in November, to calculate how much poorer he was by possessing it.

CHAPTER L.

It is impossible for the historian, with even the best intentions, to control events or compel the persons of his narrative to act wisely or to be successful.  It is easy to see how things might have been better managed; a very little change here and there would have made a very, different history of this one now in hand.

If Philip had adopted some regular profession, even some trade, he might now be a prosperous editor or a conscientious plumber, or an honest lawyer, and have borrowed money at the saving’s bank and built a cottage, and be now furnishing it for the occupancy of Ruth and himself.  Instead of this, with only a smattering of civil engineering, he is at his mother’s house, fretting and fuming over his ill-luck, and the hardness and, dishonesty of men, and thinking of nothing but how to get the coal out of the Ilium hills.