It was not to be a selfish success he told himself: he would shirk no obligation when it came—all should profit by it. But he could do so much with a different environment. The appreciation his brother and sisters gave him was so tainted by an indiscriminate disapproval of his aims, and their recognition of his poor triumphs so niggardly, as though any reference to them was an acknowledgment of superiority on his part. In spite of this he would do what he could for them—when he could. Most of all would he do for his mother. She should have the thousand things, big and little, women loved and wanted. She had done so much for him—for all of them. She had brought them up unaided, through a struggle against poverty, the hardness of which he could only dimly divine. He would have counted it the blackest treachery not to have thought of her. Then when the girls were married—and marry they must—he intended to get husbands for them, even if they had to be bought—she would come and live with him. They had talked it over a hundred times—he and Barbara—and knew just how it was to be arranged. He never questioned his ability to do all this, for his faith had become perfect and abiding. In the kindly benevolence of his castle-building he even wished well to Anson. After all, they were brothers. Anson had a fondness for travel; he would give him the means to indulge that taste, he should travel—more than this, he should travel always—the farther away the better. When he left home, Philip betook himself into the presence of his betrothed. As he entered the parlor where Barbara sat—idly turning the leaves of a book, she looked up at him and smiled. “I am glad you came,” she said. “I was just beginning to think I shouldn't see you to-night.” Philip drew a chair near to hers as he answered. “So am I, but I should be at work.” “Guess who has called this afternoon?” “Why do you make me exert myself—why don't you tell me at once if I am to know?” “Mr. Shelden.” “Well, and what had he to say? Do you know, Barbara, I object, for it just occurs to me that he is without a wife... having already disposed of one. Truly I object to his calling on you.” “But he is papa's friend——” “Oh, is he? Well, he is a precious old fool—that's my opinion of him.” Philip, conscious of the slightness of the claim he had upon her, dreaded a possible rival. He knew the sanction to his suit was only passive—the least thing might bring about the most pronounced opposition. “He is not so very old: he is only forty-five. He regards himself as still youthful, for he assured me this was the age of the young man,” said Barbara. “It's the age of the damn fool,” Philip grunted savagely, and then penitently: “That was a case of justifiable damn: it was wrung from me, Barbara. It's so exasperating to hear such twaddle.” “I believe you're jealous, Philip. I really believe you are!” “Of course I am! I am no better than a pauper—and he——”