15 Temptation

It was said by many in the capital in the remaining days of the session that Guthrie seemed to feel no elation over his remarkable victory with which the whole State was ringing, and these critics were not lacking in acuteness, for they were right. After the first flush of his triumph was gone, he felt a double sense of incompletion and loneliness. Carton and Mary Pelham still held aloof from each other. The Speaker had received a brilliant vindication, but he was as far as ever from the girl he loved. Guthrie knew that Carton resented her apparent lack of faith in him when he was not favoured by appearances, and, though he had been able to set the Speaker right in public life, he did not know how to help him in love; in that respect, his work was not finished.

His sense of loneliness—a feeling that had never come to him before, and he wondered at it—arose from his own position. He realised that he was in a way a maker of reputations for many, but not for himself. Others, and it was he who had made it possible, were having their triumphs, but he remained the same. He began to feel discontent. He moved uneasily in his environment, and he was galled by the circumstances that made him what he was. Had he subjected himself to a keen analysis, he might have found that this chafing was due to the quiet words of a girl, spoken apparently with little intent.

It was to suppress such feelings as these that he plunged into his work with renewed zeal and energy, and his despatches gained in force and brilliancy. But his sense of mental isolation did not depart, and he tried to seclude himself, keeping away from the Governor’s house, in order to weaken an attraction which he felt that he must resist. Mr. Hastings was surprised, and, meeting Guthrie in the corridors of the Capitol, he asked:

“Billy, why have you cut us all? Lucy was speaking to-day of your desertion. Have you grown so great now that you prefer lonely grandeur?”

Guthrie, embarrassed, said something about the pressure of work, but the young Governor would admit no such excuse.

“That won’t do, Billy,” he said, smiling. “Your great pressure here is over, and you know it, and you know that I know it. We want you. Miss Pelham is still with us, and”—here his voice lingered a moment—“and Miss Ransome, too.”

Despite himself, a flush came into Guthrie’s cheeks, and then, because he was conscious of it, he flushed all the more. But the observant Governor pretended not to notice, and Guthrie, thinking that he did not, was in a moment himself again.

“I thought that Miss Ransome was to return to the city in a day or two,” he said, in assumed carelessness. “Is she not to marry shortly that Belgian count—or is it a Frenchman?”

“I never consider marriages of that kind sure until they occur,” replied the Governor in the same careless tone, and he added nothing to this off-hand statement, save another warm invitation to come to his house. Being a married man, the Governor knew when he had said enough about an affair of the heart to the one concerned—a virtue that men never learn until their wives teach it to them.

When the Governor went home, he sought advice from Lucy on a case that he thought important, and she was not loath to give it. She helped, too, to such purpose that the next day she appeared with her group in the lobby of the House, and they were all in raiment fresh and wonderful to see. Lucy Hastings was a beautiful woman, and so was Mary Pelham, but it was quite the verdict of the House—and it contained many men no mean judges in such matters—that Clarice Ransome was the most beautiful of the three. It was not alone the loveliness of face and figure, but it was something in the expression, its frankness, the direct gaze of the eyes, that gave to mere physical beauty the added and finer touch that was of the mind and spirit. Men, beholding her, involuntarily said to themselves: “Here is a woman whom one could trust, one who would be strongest of all in evil days, one who would cling through all things to the man she loves.”

But to-day she looked very young and slender—only a girl with a rose upon her breast, and a slight touch of sadness in her eyes. Yet it was spring. Winter was completely routed, and, from all the windows, the wonderful, tender green of the circling hills was visible. There was a breath of new roses in the air, and few noticed the touch of sadness in Clarice Ransome’s eyes.

Guthrie, looking up from his desk, thought her more lovely than ever, now that he believed she was not for him, and had never been for him. It was a democratic country, but he was not willing to be considered a fortune-hunter, nor to seek what was promised already to another man. So he steeled his heart, turned his eyes back to his desk, and resolved not to look again at the tempting balcony. But there was a power greater than his will, and presently he glanced up once more. Then Lucy Hastings eyes caught his, and she beckoned to him so imperiously to come that he could not refuse and remain a gentleman. He folded up his notes—it was a dull day, occupied with little local bills—and walking down the aisle joined the Governor’s group.

Lucy Hastings was censorious, she complained of his lack of attention, she said that she had depended upon him to help her in the dying season at the capital, and now he was failing her woefully. She said that she had missed him, but she did not say that any one else had missed him, too, and she was so adroit that Clarice Ransome herself did not suspect any hidden motive. At last, after proving to the humble Guthrie how badly he had behaved, she demanded that he go with them on a woodland excursion that she had arranged for three days later, and he did not have the courage to refuse.

Nor did she make him sit just then by Clarice Ransome, but it was to Mary Pelham that she assigned him. The dull business of the session droned on, and there was no excuse for Guthrie to go. He saw out of the corner of his eye that Clarice Ransome was looking over the floor of the House, as if she sought friends there, and, on his part, he pretended to a deep interest in Miss Pelham. Nor was this all assumption. He gave much admiration to Mary Pelham, although he thought her a little too cold and a little too haughty, at least in manner, which was particularly unfortunate, because Carton had the same faults. But to Guthrie, from some cause, which he believed he could guess, she relaxed, and when he told her, half at her own suggestion, of the events in the mountains and New York, she listened with an interest that he knew to be vivid and real. But he shrewdly judged that this eagerness to hear was less for him than for the one on whose account the journeys had been made. Guthrie, as he talked, saw the red deepen in her cheeks and her eyes sparkle, and he felt sure that Carton still had her heart. But the old sense of helplessness returned to him. He might manage some affairs, but such as these were beyond his ken. At last, he said:

“Mr. Carton, so far as public life is concerned, will profit by his ordeal. To the people, he appears in more brilliant colours than ever, after the lifting of the unjust cloud.”

“He is a fortunate man,” she said.

“Perhaps, but I do not think that he is a happy one.”

Guthrie, observant, saw a sudden light in her eyes, as if she had heard something that pleased her, but her tone was unchanged when she asked:

“Why? What more can he want?”

Guthrie was too wise to reply. He merely shook his head.

“I do not know,” he said, “but I am sure he is unhappy. I suppose that like most of us he wants very much something that he cannot get.”

Carton himself had received the imperious mandate of Lucy Hastings, conveyed in a simple gesture of her hand, and he, too, obeyed. Calling another member to the chair, he entered the lobby, and joined the little group of ladies. He bowed courteously to Mary Pelham, and then devoted himself to Lucy Hastings and Clarice Ransome. But, in spite of themselves, in spite of Lucy Hastings’ best efforts, a certain constraint settled over them all, and it was not broken until Senator Pike, as grave as ever, but with a milder light in his eyes, came to their help. His very absence of social guile, his infinite capacity for speaking of things just as they were, relieved them. Soon they were all gathered about him, and then there was a readjustment of the circle. Guthrie now found himself by the side of Clarice Ransome.

In this changed condition, Guthrie felt his old sense of uneasiness return. There was something about Clarice that always drew him on. He had ceased to doubt his feeling for her, he knew that it was love, and he was afraid of himself. To-day that little touch of sadness made her infinitely winning.

“I heard Lucy asking you to come with us Saturday,” she said, “but I do not know what your answer was. I hope that you are coming, Mr. Guthrie. We feel that you have quite abandoned us since your triumphal return.”

“Count on me,” said Guthrie lightly, and then he added with real earnestness:

“I wish you wouldn’t speak of my triumphal return. I had a little good luck, that was all, and, moreover, my return isn’t triumphal.”

She glanced at him, and, when she saw the genuinely despondent look upon his face, there was a little glow in her eyes. She had intimated to him by the river that he should think, not less of others, but more of himself. These words may have left their mark.

A singular spirit now animated Clarice Ransome. For the first time in her life, she played the coquette—not the heartless coquette, but the one who is in earnest, and a coquette, too, who hid all her arts from spectators. She spoke to Guthrie in an ordinary voice, but there was a tone, faint though it was, that still led him on. A great resolve was forming in her mind, and never had Guthrie found her more attractive, more brilliant. There was an elusive charm that he could not grasp or define, and, under its influence, he found all his strength melting away.

When Lucy Hastings went home, she said to her husband,

“Mr. Guthrie will come with us Saturday, and I think that he is glad to come.”

Clarice Ransome went to her room, locked the door, and took from a trunk a photograph at which she looked long and carefully. The photograph bore the name of a foreign maker in the corner, and the face was that of a young man whose mustache curled beautifully. Then she shut her eyes, and her mind produced another face that was wholly different, and she seemed to like it, because she smiled. Then she opened her eyes again, and looked at the photograph with a distinct aversion which, perhaps, was not fair to the young man with the beautifully pointed mustache and the beautifully curled hair. At length, with impatient movements, she thrust the photograph into the bottom of the trunk, heaped other things on top of it, and with a jerk locked the trunk.

About the same time, unusual things were happening to Guthrie. When he left the Capitol, his recent feeling of despondency returned to him with greater force than ever. He had yielded again to a charm that he had taken a silent oath to resist; he had revelled in the sunshine when he had sworn to keep to the shadow, and he did not like the proof of his own weakness.

He passed through the lobby of the hotel, giving and taking the usual greetings, and entered the corridor that led to his room; but he was stopped in the narrow passage by a small, smoothly shaved man dressed in gray—none other than Mr. Caius Marcellus Harlow, now, as always, trim, suave, and calm.

Mr. Harlow held out his hand, but Guthrie hesitated. Mr. Harlow, still calm and suave, offered his hand again.

“You need not be angry with me, Mr. Guthrie,” he said. “It was not I who made you the offer of the money in the trust company vault, as I told you once before, nor did I advise it. In fact, I fought against it strenuously. It was Charlie Warren who insisted on the truth of the old saying that every man has his price, and he has found out his mistake. That saying is very often untrue, Mr. Guthrie, I assure you, and I have had plenty of opportunities to know.”

“I like to hear you say so,” said Guthrie, aimlessly, not knowing what Mr. Harlow had in mind, but waiting to see.

“I arrived from New York this morning,” resumed Mr. Harlow, “and my chief object to-day has been to meet you. I wish to have with you a private talk of importance. Your room or mine will serve.”

“Come to my room,” said Guthrie, wondering what the lobbyist could have to say to him now, and, despite himself, feeling a sort of liking for this smooth, resourceful man. He gave Mr. Harlow a seat by the window, and took another chair near-by where he waited, expectant.

“A fine view of the river and the hills,” said Mr. Harlow. “The first green of spring is something wonderfully tender and beautiful.”

“It is so,” said Guthrie dryly.

“Which is not business,” continued Mr. Harlow with a laugh, “but I come to it at once. In short, Mr. Warren has gone out of the New York firm that I represent. There was trouble over the exposure in the Times, and the older members concluded that perhaps Mr. Warren was a trifle too smart; in fact, that he was ultra-modern in his methods. Their prestige has been lowered by this affair, their credit damaged, and their business injured. So it was thought best that they and Mr. Warren should part. Now they are going to be more conservative in their methods; that is, they are going to eschew what I may call the risqué.”

“But how does this concern me?” asked Guthrie.

“It concerns you very greatly—if you are willing that it should do so. We want a brisk, active young man—one whom people will involuntarily trust, to represent us in various important quarters. He is to be thoroughly honest; he will not be called upon to do anything that goes against the grain.”

“This has to do with money?”

“Yes, and in large amounts. Would you mind telling me, Mr. Guthrie, what salary you get?”

Guthrie named a modest sum.

“We are prepared to pay you three times as much to begin with and to give you a three years’ contract. After that, if you develop, and I have not the slightest doubt that you will, you would be worth more. You could almost name your own price. What do you say, Mr. Guthrie? I cannot recall when such another offer was made to a man of your youth.”

“I am surprised,” said Guthrie, “that your people should want me. I did not consider their feelings when I spoke to them.”

“In high finance, there is no such thing as feelings.”

Guthrie closed his eyes for a moment. The offer was a surprise, a great surprise. Until recently, he had not felt the need of money, of a much larger income. He was so deeply engrossed in his work, and his wants had always been so modest, that the question of salary was seldom in his mind. But now a new motive had entered, and it was far from being a sordid one.

The pay offered by the New York firm was large, very large. Perhaps not half a dozen men in his State were receiving such a salary; it was certainly more than the Governor’s, and, with such an income, certain barriers that had seemed impassable would disappear. He could see again a wistful, lovely face, and Guthrie was sorely tempted. He would enter the lists fairly against that other man in Europe, and he suddenly realised that he did not now and never had feared him.

“Well, what do you say, Mr. Guthrie?”

The voice seemed to come from afar off, and Guthrie did not yet answer.

The face of Clarice Ransome, the wistful eyes with the little touch of sadness, lured him on, and, for a moment, he felt a thrill of exultation; but it was only for a moment, —then he saw the other side; this was not work for which he cared, he did not even feel a remote interest in it, and he could not; there were only two things in which he was deeply interested—journalism, with its literary fringe, and public life—and he had sufficient knowledge of himself now to know that he could never change.

And, besides the work, there was the question of what it would lead to. Mr. Harlow had promised that he should have nothing of a shady nature to do; but that promise—even if it were made in good faith—could it be kept? “High Finance” was an expansive term. There was great width between top and bottom, and within its ample spaces were bred many forms of activity. Guthrie was convinced in fact, he knew that the promise could not be kept, although he did not question Mr. Harlow’s good faith. The pressure of circumstance and the fierce competition of others in “High Finance” would be too great.

The face of Clarice Ransome was still before him. Guthrie’s young soul was pure, and in it womanhood was enshrined, with Clarice as the concrete embodiment. He longed to enter the combat for her, but, if the victory were won, he must come to her with it fairly won. She would be the last to approve of shady methods, he must lose her respect as well as his own, and, purely and deeply as he loved her, he did not wish to win her unless he could win her worthily. No; the obstacles were still there, the barriers had not melted away.

He opened his eyes, they had not been closed more than twenty seconds, so rapid was the passage of his thoughts, and he still heard the voice of Mr. Harlow, coming from far away like an echo:

“Well, Mr. Guthrie, what is your answer?”

Guthrie shook his head.

“I thank you, Mr. Harlow,” he said; “because I think it is through your influence that this offer has been made to me, but I cannot accept it. I am not fitted for the work; it does not interest me at all. I must fight it out here as I have begun.”

A shade of disappointment passed over Mr. Harlow’s face.

“I am sorry that you have come to this conclusion,” he said; “I like you, and I am sure that you would prove a great success. I think that you are standing in your own light, Mr. Guthrie, not alone financially, but in something else that is very dear to you.”

He looked squarely into Guthrie’s eyes, and Guthrie knew that he understood. Nothing in the little capital ever escaped the keen eyes of Caius Marcellus Harlow. None of all the things that had passed so quickly in the mind of the young correspondent was a secret to him. Guthrie flushed and then he added quietly:

“That was one of my reasons for declining, Mr. Harlow.”

The lobbyist arose.

“I judge from your tone, Mr. Guthrie, that this answer is final,” he said. “You have shown more self-sacrifice than would have been possible for me, but, at the same time, I can understand it and appreciate it. I should like to shake hands with you before I go to the telegraph office to send my answer.”

He extended his hand once more, and Guthrie shook it heartily. When Mr. Harlow was gone, he sat by the window and looked out at the circling hills now gilded by the red gold of the setting sun. The refusal had cost him an effort. He did not make sacrifices merely as a sort of personal flattery to himself. He was no such prig as that. Clarice now seemed farther away than ever, and he found no consolation in the darkening evening.

His bell rang, and, when he responded “Come in!” one of the hotel boys entered with the day’s mail, and laid it on the table beside him. There were half a dozen letters, and Guthrie began to open them without curiosity. The fourth was rather thick, with the address carefully typewritten. Before opening it, he noticed that it was postmarked New York, and this aroused some interest. “Who can be writing to me from New York?” he thought. But, when he began to read, his interest increased rapidly.

The letter was from the proprietor of a newspaper in New York, widely known and popularly classed under the name of “yellow.” The owner, a man of immense wealth, had recently bought this paper, and was spending millions upon it. He was literally buying for its service men whom he thought valuable, and it had reached the limits in sensationalism.

It was the owner himself who was now writing to Guthrie. He said that the young correspondent’s wonderful penetration, will, and energy, as shown in the “United” case, had been brought to his attention. Nor had his informants failed to tell him of his courage and judgment in the mountains with Senator Pike. It was for just such men as this that he was looking. Men who would faithfully do routine work or what their predecessors had done were common—these were the ordinary virtues; but men who could think for themselves, and, having thought, dared to do things original and striking were rare. They were the kind that he needed in his work, and it was to this kind that he was sure Mr. Guthrie belonged. Hence he sent him an offer to come to New York and join his staff. He named the salary, which was a thousand a year above that of Mr. Harlow’s people, and, like Mr. Hariow, he offered a three-year contract. He held forth, too, all the promise of a brilliant future.

It was a typewritten letter, covering several pages, and, when Guthrie had read it all through carefully, he went back and read it all again with equal care. There could be no question as to its authenticity, and, even as he read, there was a ring at the door, and a telegram from the owner of the newspaper was delivered to him, saying: “Kindly answer my letter of the 7th inst. as soon as possible. Waiting for you.”

Guthrie felt again that sudden swell of triumph. He was young. It was impossible not to be flattered by these great and unexpected offers. This last was in his own profession. It was merely a moving forward. New York was the first arena of modern journalism, and there he could find full opportunity for the exercise of the powers that he felt within him. Like every other American youth of ambition, his mind had often turned longingly to this mighty metropolis of all the States, and now the opportunity to go was brought to him, and he was almost begged to take it. To him there were but two great theatres of action on the Western continent; one was Washington, the theatre of public life, and the other was New York, the theatre of all the talents.

Guthrie again looked out of the window, but it was dark on the hills, and the shadows found their counterpart in his own mind, because now, as in the first case, the picture was presenting the other side. And there was another side.

He had often seen the newspaper which was now making him so munificent an offer—in fact, it could escape the attention of few, and his mind revolted at its crude pages. In his opinion, no newspaper could be great without a purpose, without convictions. It must have beliefs, real and sincere, concerning the chief topics of the day, and must express them even in the face of the majority and at a risk. He despised an editor or an owner who would run with the crowd, merely because it was the crowd. Vigilant news-gathering he respected, but he did not believe it to be all; beyond lay the duty to instruct, to teach, to lead the way, to stand in the face of all things for what the owner believed to be the right.

Guthrie could see no proof of such a purpose in the newspaper that was seeking him. No stir of life lighted up its arid pages; its sole object seemed to be the achievement of circulation; its owner apparently had no convictions on the great questions of the day—perhaps he did not know that they existed.

Could he do himself justice there? What would his work be? He recalled the last copy of the newspaper that he had seen, and he could not remember any place in it for what he had to give. Yet the offer was most tempting. Perhaps the owner was about to enter new fields of journalistic endeavour, and, having it in mind, had chosen Guthrie as one of his pilots. Again he thought of Clarice with the touch of sadness in her eyes.

There was a step in the hall outside, a quick knock at the door, and Jimmy Warfield, scarcely waiting for an invitation, entered noisily and cheerfully.

“What, ho, Billy!” he cried. “Why don’t you light up? Don’t you see that the dark has come upon us?”

Guthrie turned on the lights.

“Why do you look so serious?” exclaimed Warfield when he saw his face. “Have you another great problem on hand?”

“Yes, I have, Jimmy, but it is one that concerns me only. However, I am not above advice from a friend. Read that, and tell me what you think of it.”

He handed the letter to Warfield, who read it carefully, and then whistled.

“That’s a lot of money, Billy,” he said. “I don’t expect to earn as much in a good many years.”

“But that is not telling me what you think of it.”

“Well, Billy, I’ve seen a few copies of this newspaper, which has suddenly got the idea that you are a great man.”

“But you don’t give advice.”

“I’d rather not. I can say, however, that we’d be mighty sorry to lose you in this State.”

“Jimmy,” said Guthrie, and he felt something stir at his heart, “I believe that what you are telling me is true.”

“Of course! Of course!” said Warfield cheerily, affecting lightness because he saw that Guthrie was really moved.

“I won’t ask you for your opinion again,” said Guthrie, “but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You’ve come in to see me because you didn’t have anything particular on hand. Suppose, we sit here and talk about everything under the sun except this letter.”

“Good enough,” said Warfield, and he launched at once upon the gossip of the town. He was never gayer and brighter, and he was like a whiff of a spring wind in the room which had been so lonely before.

Jimmy Warfield was a wise man and observant, and he soon brought the cheerful flow of his talk to the Governor’s group.

“Miss Ransome is going back to her father’s house next week,” he said, “and Mrs. Hastings and Miss Pelham are to visit her very soon.”

“What about Carton?”

“I think it likely that he will go up there, too. The trouble between him and Mary Pelham is bound to be settled before long. All it needs is an explosion.”

“An explosion?”

“Yes, somebody or something to smash up the barrier that has formed between them. I’ve a good notion to get the two together—by force, if necessary—tell them to their faces that they have been very foolish, and then leave them to settle it as best they can.”

Guthrie laughed.

“I wouldn’t risk it if I were you, Jimmy,” he said.

“No, I suppose I won’t, but I’m tempted. Now there’s another thing on my mind: Clarice Ransome is going to marry that jumping-jack of a count—I’ve never seen him, but I know he must be a jumping-jack. It’s a genuine wasting of sweetness on the desert air. You know how honourable and high-minded she is—what lofty ideas she has of things. He can’t possibly be worthy of her. I hope some good man in our State will kidnap her, and compel her to marry him; it would be a violent deed in a just cause.”

Guthrie did not laugh this time. He was thinking of Warfield’s words: “how honourable and high-minded she is—what lofty ideas she has of things.” The very same thought of her had been running in his own mind.

When Jimmy Warfield left, Guthrie went to the telegraph office, and sent to the owner of the great news paper in New York this short despatch:

“I thank you for your generous offer, but I cannot accept it. Urgent personal reasons forbid.”

It is needless to say that Guthrie did not feel regrets over his double refusal. He had plenty of ambition, and now there was another motive still more powerful to drive him on. He thought often and with regret of the high pay offered to him and of all that it would make possible; but he had no idea of changing his resolve in either case.

The news of the two great offers to Guthrie spread in the little capital, one he had no doubt through Mr. Harlow and the other through Jimmy Warfield—he had not thought in the stress of the moment to bind either to secrecy—and now he was compelled to blush. The little newspaper of the town announced with a fine flourish that the fame of Mr. Guthrie, the correspondent of the Times, so popular with all who knew him and they were many, had spread far. Then it described with generous detail the grand offers that had been made to him, and announced loftily that he was considering them.

Guthrie was compelled to hide. His modesty suffered in reality. He understood the local pride which always painted its own in as vivid colours as possible, but this was going pretty far, and he felt as if he were made to appear very much more than he was.

True to his former resolution, he did not go near the Governor’s house until the morning for the excursion in the woods, knowing now that he had all the greater reason for self-denial.

The day was good for their arrangements, the spring unfolding fresh beauty and loveliness in every curve of hill and valley. Here and there tiny wild flowers were beginning already to show vivid colours in the grass.

They wandered far back from the river until the capital was hidden from their sight by the swelling hills. Only a plume of smoke marked where it stood. Here, in the general drift, Guthrie at last found himself again with Clarice, and none other was near. He had noticed that she was unusually silent that day; the little touch of sadness in her eyes seemed to have deepened, and it found a sympathetic chord in his own heart.

“I suppose, Mr. Guthrie,” she said, after some aimless talk, “that you are going to leave the old State and achieve your fortune in New York. We have been reading of all your triumphs, and everybody has been talking of them, too.”

“I am not going to do either. The old State cannot get rid of me just yet.”

She had picked one of the tiny wild flowers from the grass, and held the delicate blossom between her fingers. She glanced covertly at him when he spoke, but her eyes did not express surprise.

“No,” he continued, “I am not going.”

“They were great offers, unless report has exaggerated.”

“Financially, they were large offers—very large for me. In neither case, should I have been worth the sum.”

“Was that the reason you declined?”

He had fallen, almost without knowing it, into the habit of telling her his hopes and fears, and it was natural for her to ask him his reasons. He flushed suddenly as he thought of the real cause. But he replied frankly.

“No, it was not. I had in my mind the good opinion of others. I could not do the work those men wanted me to do.”

He had felt the wish to talk to some one, to excuse himself even for his refusals, and now he poured out all his thoughts to her. There was something inexpressibly sweet to him in this confidence, this liberty to tell her all. He described to her every detail of the interview with Mr. Harlow, and he gave her the letter of the newspaper editor to read.

Guthrie watched her as she read the letter, but some of her emotions were hidden from him. When she finished, she said quietly, “I think you were right, Mr. Guthrie; you could not accept either this offer or the other. You were made for a different kind of work.”

But she uttered a little sigh, so soft that she scarcely knew of it herself, and Guthrie did not hear.

That night she took the photograph from the bottom of her trunk, tore it up, and threw the pieces in the fire.

The Legislature adjourned three days later, and, amid many regrets, the great political family dispersed, each to his own corner of the State. But these were not sad regrets. In this State, everybody is continually meeting everybody else all through life.

Clarice went directly to her home in the city, and her father met her with joy unrestrained upon his broad honest face. How big and kind he looked! And how handsome was his homely face! How could she ever go away and leave him! Then she looked at the great brick house with the white shutters, in which she was born, and at the wide green lawn with the shadowing oaks; she would find abroad nothing more beautiful and nothing more friendly or protecting.

That night, at dinner, her mother said:

“I suppose, Clarice, since you are no longer compelled to meet him, that you will see no more of young Mr. Guthrie.”

“On the contrary, mother,” replied Clarice, “I have asked him to call upon me here, and he has promised to do so.”

►   ▲