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, or when they lose what little they may have attained,
or when the gaze of the world wanders, that they become hard, sour,
bitter, and merciless toward all who have succeeded where they have
failed. The only mercy that Nature has shown them in their affliction,
is to make most of them slow to realize that they can never gain the one
thing they crave. And this miserable awakening had not yet come to
William Pressley. On that evening he had every reason to be content and
well pleased with himself. The future promised all that he most
earnestly wished for. He was already moderately successful in the
practice of his profession. This was mainly owing to his uncle's
influence, but he was far from suspecting the fact. His domestic life,
also, was admirably settled; he was fond of Ruth and proud of her, as he
was of everything belonging to himself. But the thing which made him
happiest was a suggestion of Philip Alston's, first offered on the
previous day; and it was to this that he now recurred at the first
opportunity.

He spoke with an eagerness curiously apart from his words:

"There seems to be no doubt that the Shawnees are really gone. Men,
women, and children, they have all disappeared from their town on the
other side of the river. A hunter who has been over there told me so
yesterday. It appears reasonably certain that the warriors are gathering
under the Prophet at Tippecanoe."

"Yes, it is undoubtedly true that the Indians are rising," replied
Philip Alston, still looking at Ruth. "Well, it was bound to come,--this
last decisive struggle between the white and the red race,--and the
sooner the better, perhaps. I hear, too,