on, whose history was almost contemporary
with that of New York.

By noon it was extensively rumored that Wentworth & Son would close
their doors. The firm which had lasted for three generations, and whose
name had been the synonym for honor and for philanthropy, which had
stood as the type of the highest that can exist in commerce, would go
down. Men spoke of it with a regret which did them honor--hard men who
rarely expressed regret for the losses of another.

It was rumored, too, that Wickersham & Company must assign; but this
caused little surprise and less regret. Aaron Wickersham had had
friends, but his son had not succeeded to them.

Keith, having determined to talk to Alice Lancaster about Lois, was
calling on the former a day or two after her interview with Wickersham.
She was still somewhat disturbed over it, and showed it in her manner so
clearly that Keith asked what was the trouble.

It was nothing very much, she said. Only she had broken finally with a
friend she had known a long time, and such things upset her.

Keith was sympathetic, and suddenly, to his surprise, she broke down and
began to cry. He had never seen her weep before since she sat, as a
girl, in the pine-woods and he lent her his handkerchief to dry her
tears. Something in the association gave him a feeling of unwonted
tenderness. She had not appeared to him so soft, so feminine, in a long
time. He essayed to comfort her. He, too, had broken with an old friend,
the friend of a lifetime, and he would never get over it.

"Mine was such a blow to me," she said, wiping her eyes; "such cruel
things were said to me. I did not think any one but a woman would have
said such biting things to a woman."

"It was Ferdy Wickersham, I know," said Keith, his eyes contracting;
"but what on earth could he have said? What could he have dared to say
to wound you so?"

"He said all the town was talking about me and Norman." She began to cry
again. "Norman, dear old Norman, who has been more like a brother to me
than any one I have ever known, and whom I would give the world to bring
back happiness to."

"He is a scoundrel!" exclaimed Keith. "I have stood all--more than I
ever expected to stand from any man living; but if he is attacking
women"--he was speaking to himself rather than to her--"I will unmask
him. He is not worth your notice," he said kindly, addressing her again.
"Women have been his prey ever since I knew him, when he was but a young