armness of the party papers," he said.
"They ought to hurrah over Dick. But perhaps the secret machinery is
being set to work, and they've been told that there will be trouble at
the convention. The senator never backs down, and I've never seen
anybody that could frighten Dick. There'll be some interesting events
this fall. Herculaneum will figure in the newspapers from Maine to
California, for everybody is familiar with Warrington's name and work.
It's a month yet before the delegates get together; either Warrington
will run or he won't. Calling him a meddler is good. If the Times
isn't a meddler, I never saw one and have misunderstood the meaning of
the word."

In the music-room Patty was playing Grieg and MacDowell, and
Warrington was turning the pages. The chords, weird and melancholy,
seemed to permeate his whole being; sad, haunting music, that spoke of
toil, tears, death and division, failure and defeat, hapless love and
loveless happiness. After a polonaise, Patty stopped.

"If music were only lasting, like a painting, a statue, a book," she
said; "but it isn't. Why these things haunt me every day, but I can
recollect nothing; I have to come back to the piano. It is elusive."

"And the most powerful of all the arts that arouse the emotions. Hang
it! when I hear a great singer, a great violinist, half the time I
find an invisible hand clutching me by the throat ... Patty, honestly
now, didn't you write that letter?"

"Yes," looking him courageously in the eyes. "And I hope you were not
laughing when you said all those kind things about it."

"Laughing? No," gravely, "I was not laughing. Play something lively;
Chaminade; I am blue to-night."

So Patty played the light, enchanting sketches. In the midst of one of
them she stopped suddenly.

"What is it?" he asked.

"I thought I heard the boat's whistle. Listen. Yes, there it is. It
must be a telegram. They never come up to the head of the lake at
night for anything less. There goes John with a lantern."

"Never mind the telegram," he said; "play."

A quarter of an hour later John and Kate came in.

"A telegram for you, Dick," John announced, sending the yellow
envelope skimming through the air.

Warrington caught it deftly. He balanced it in his hand speculatively.

"It is probably a hurry-call from the senator. I may have to go back
to town to-morrow. I have always hated telegrams."

He opened it carelessly and read it. He read it again, slowly; a