fice, well assured of the result. At five o'clock, when the town polls
closed, Russell's votes showed a majority of two hundred and forty-four.
Couriers came in constantly from country precincts, with equally favourable
accounts, and at ten o'clock it was ascertained, beyond doubt, that he was
elected. Irene and her uncle rode down to learn the truth, and, not knowing
where to find Mr. Huntingdon, stopped the carriage at the corner of the
main street, and waited a few moments. Very soon a rocket whizzed through
the air, a band of music struck up before Russell's office, and a number of
his adherents insisted that he should show himself on the balcony. A crowd
immediately collected opposite, cheering the successful candidate, and
calling for a speech. He came out, and, in a few happy, dignified words,
thanked them for the honour conferred, and pledged himself to guard most
faithfully the interests committed to his keeping. After the noisy
constituents had retired, he stood talking to some friends, when he chanced
to recognize the fiery horses across the street. The carriage-top was
thrown back, and by the neighbouring gaslight he saw Irene's white face
turned toward him, then the horses sprang off. Mr. Campbell noticed,
without understanding, the sudden start, and bitter though triumphant smile
that crossed his face in the midst of pleasant gratulations.

"Go home, Andrew. I know now what I came to learn."

Irene sank back and folded her mantle closer around her.

"Don't you think, Irene, that Aubrey deserves to succeed?"

"Yes."

Her dreary tone disconcerted him, and he offered no further comment, little
suspecting that her hands were pressed hard against her heart, and that her
voiceless sorrow, was: "Henceforth we must be still more estranged; a wider
gulf, from this night, divides us."

CHAPTER XXI

THE MINISTER'S LOVE

Two years rolled on, stained with the tears of many, ringing with the songs
and laughter of a fortunate few. The witchery of Southern spring again
enveloped W----, and Irene stood on the lawn surveying the "greenery of the
outdoor world" that surrounded her.

In this woman's sad but intensely calm countenance, a joyless life found
silent history. She felt that her life was passing rapidly, unimproved,
and aimless; she knew that her years, instead of being fragrant with the
mellow fruitage of good deeds, were tedious and joyless, and that the
gaunt, numbing hand of ennui was closing up