He knew it would, for though more interested in Alice than he supposed he could be in any one after poor Lily died, he was far too mercenary to let his affections run away with his judgment, and could the stricken Alice have looked into his heart and seen what his cogitations were that morning, when at the St. Nicholas he sat thinking, how her mother’s loss might possibly affect him, she would have shrunk from him in horror. He had best go home at once, he said, and on the day appointed for the funeral he reached the station adjoining Snowdon, where he alighted, as the Express train did not stop in the next town. It was not more than two miles to Terrace Hill across the fields, and as he preferred walking to riding, he sauntered slowly on, thinking of Alice and wishing he did know just the amount left her by her mother. “I must do something,” he soliloquized, “or how can I ever pay those debts in New York, of which mother knows nothing? I wish that widow——” He did not finish his wishes, for a turn in the path brought him suddenly face to face with Mr. Liston, whom he had seen at a distance, and whom he recognized at once. “I’ll quiz the old codger,” he thought. “He don’t, of course, know me, and will never suspect my object.” Mistaken doctor! The old codger was fully prepared. He did know Dr. Richards by sight, and was rather glad than otherwise when the elegant dandy, taking a seat upon the gnarled roots of the tree under which he was sitting, made some trivial remark about the weather, which was very propitious for the crowd who were sure to attend Mrs. Johnson’s funeral. Yes, Mr. Liston presumed there would be a crowd. It was very natural there should be, particularly as the deceased was greatly beloved and was also reputed wealthy. “It beats all what a difference it makes, even after death, whether one is supposed to be rich or poor,” and the _codger_ worked away industriously at the pine stick he was whittling. “But in this case the supposition of riches must be correct, though I know people are oftener over valued than otherwise,” and with his gold-headed cane the doctor thrust at a dandelion growing near. “Nothing truer than that,” returned the whittler, brushing the litter from his lap. “Now I’ve no doubt that prig of a doctor, who they say is shining up to Alice, will be disappointed when he finds just how much she’s worth. Let me see. What is his name? Lives up there,” and with his jack-knife Mr. Liston pointed toward Terrace Hill. Smothering his desire to throttle and then pitch into the river the old man, calling him a _a prig of a doctor_, so coolly and deliberately marring his golden visions, the doctor answered, naturally, “The Richards family live there, sir. You mean their son, I presume.”