Alice's letter to Keith was friendly and even kind. She had never
forgotten him, she said. Some day she hoped to meet him again. Keith
read this with a pleasant light in his eyes. He turned the page, and his
face suddenly whitened. She had a piece of news to tell him which might
surprise him. She was engaged to be married to an old friend of her
family's, Mr. Lancaster. He had met Mr. Lancaster, she remembered, and
was sure he would like him, as Mr. Lancaster had liked him so much.

Keith sat long over this letter, his face hard set and very white. She
was lost to him. He had not known till then how largely he had built his
life upon the memory of Alice Yorke. Deep down under everything that he
had striven for had lain the foundation of his hope to win her. It went
down with a crash. He went to his room, and unlocking his desk, took
from his drawer a small package of letters and other little mementos of
the past that had been so sweet. These he put in the fire and, with a
grim face, watched them blaze and burn to ashes. She was dead to him. He
reserved nothing.

The newspapers described the Yorke-Lancaster wedding as one of the most
brilliant affairs of the season. They dwelt particularly on the fortunes
of both parties, the value of the presents, and the splendor of the
dresses worn on the occasion. One journal mentioned that Mr. Lancaster
was considerably older than the bride, and was regarded as one of the
best, because one of the safest, matches to be found in society.

Keith recalled Mr. Lancaster: dignified, cultivated, and coldly
gracious. Then he recalled his gray hair, and found some satisfaction in
it. He recalled, too, Mrs. Yorke's friendliness for him. This, then, was
what it meant. He wondered to himself how he could have been so blind to