t her--or any one whom he
knew--of personal preference for another than himself; for vanity of
this supreme order has its comforts as well as its torments.

On the part of Paul Colbert, the feeling was wholly different, and
largely impersonal. It was merely the dislike that every busy man feels
for a new acquaintance which promises no interest, even at the outset.
Had he been less busy, and his mind more free, he might perhaps have
found some amusement in trying to find out how far this serious young
man was mistaken in his high estimate of himself. He thought at a first
glance that he was a good deal in error, but he also saw that he was
sincere in his conviction; so that the young doctor was tolerantly
amused at the lofty air of the young lawyer, without the slightest
feeling of real resentment. He made one or two straightforward, friendly
efforts to thaw the ice of William Pressley's manner. His own was
naturally frank and cordial. He always wished to be liked, which is the
natural wish of every truly kind nature. And then, above and beyond
this, was the right-minded lover's instinctive desire to secure the
good-will of all who are near the one whom he loves; for Paul Colbert
had fallen in love with Ruth, and he knew it, as few do who have fallen
in love at first sight. He could, indeed, have told the very instant at
which love had come--like a bolt from the blue.

He was therefore more than willing to be friendly with William Pressley,
and already seeking a pretext to come again. He now said, turning to
Ruth with a smile:

"Since you are fond of poetry, perhaps you will allow me to fetch you a
new volume of poems by a young Englishman, Lord Byron. A friend sent it
to me from London. He says it is being severely treated by the critics.
They say that they never would have believed that any one could have
been as idle and as worthless generally, as those 'Hours of Idleness'
prove the author to be. But I think you will like the poems, especially
one called 'The Tear.' It is said that the poet means to write something
about Daniel Boone."

"There should be many tears in that poem," said Ruth, a shadow falling
over the brightness of her face. "To think of the poor old hero as he is
now makes the heart ache."

"It should make us all ashamed," said Paul Colbert. "He gave us the
whole state, and we are not willing to give him back enough of it to
rest his failing feet upon, nor a log cabin to shelter his feeble body,
w