"He is a man who would never have shamed my choice," she whispered. "But I have decided for the best. I know my own disposition; I should fret at the chains which limited my power. And I am used to every indulgence. I am selfish. Poor Phil! if somebody would present you with a check for half-a-million, I'd marry you to-morrow." In the mean time Philip Moore, all the dregs stirred up from the bottom of the fountain in his usually transparent soul, hurried to the office which he had just set up in Wall-street. There, as if in answer to the wish which had been aroused, he found a letter from a friend who had emigrated westward three years previously, forsaking the law for speculations in pine-lands and lumber, merchandise, etc. He was doing well, was getting rich in seven-league strides, had married a pretty western girl, was happy, had gone to housekeeping, wanted a partner in business as well as domestic affairs--recommended Philip to accept the chance--a few thousand dollars would be all the capital required. Philip had seven thousand dollars in stocks; he sold out, shook off the dust from his feet as he left the great metropolis, and answered his friend's letter in person, in less than a fortnight. Virginia Moore missed the convenient escort, the constant attentions, _and_ the profound worship of her high-hearted cousin; but a rich Spaniard, ugly and old, was come into the market, and she was among the bidders. Let us leave Virginia Moore, and return to that western wilderness, where a certain little girl looks lovelier, in her blue-gingham dress and wild-flower wreath, than the other in all the family diamonds. CHAPTER IV. BEN PERKINS. The day after her father's return, Alice Wilde sat down to try her new thimble in running up the skirt of her merino dress. The frock which she wore, and all her others, probably, were fashioned in the style of twenty years ago--short under the arms; a belt at the waist; low in the neck; full, puffed, short sleeves; narrow skirt, and no crinoline. Her profuse hair, when it was not allowed to fall in a golden torrent around her neck, was looped up in the quaint style which marked the fashion of her dress. She looked like the portrait, come to life, of some republican belle and beauty of long ago. Quite unconscious that this ancient style had been superseded by the balloons of to-day, she measured off the three short breadths which, when hemmed, would leave her pretty ankles exposed, even as they now, with the slippered feet, peeped from beneath her gingham. If Philip Moore had understood the mantua-maker's art, and had possessed "patterns" of the latest mode, he would not have instructed his hostess in any changes, she looked so picturesque and quaint as she was. But he did not let her sew very steadily that day. He wanted to explore the surroundings of the cabin, and she was his ready, intelligent guide.