I am not turned beggar from any one yet.

You shall take the woodland." Lot waved his hand as if he swept the woodland, with all its half-grown trees, out of his horizon.

"And yet," he said, "I thought 'twas what you left the other for.

I should have said 'twas but your wage that was offered you;" and he smiled at his cousin.
"What do you mean, Lot Gordon ?" Lot looked at him with sharp interest.

"Was there another leaf of you to read when I thought I was at the end," said he, "or were you writ in such plain characters that I put in somewhat of my own imaginings to give substance to them?
Are you better, and worse, than I thought you, cousin?
Do you love this flower that has her counterpart in all the gardens of the world, that is as sweet and no sweeter, that you can replace when she dies by stooping and picking, better than the one which has thorns enough to kill and sweetness enough to pay for death, and whose bloom you can never match ?" "I don't know what you mean," Burr said, impatiently and angrily; and Margaret Bean outside the door wagged her head in scornful assent.
"Then you loved Dorothy Fair better than Madelon Hautville, and 'twas not her place and money that turned you her way," said Lot, as if he were translating; and he kept his keen eyes on the other's face.
Burr's face flashed white.