afraid you can't. You can talk to me, if that will do
any good."

"It won't. Of course it won't. Where is Gertrude? Let me talk to her."

Daniel climbed the stairs to his daughter's room. He found her sitting
at her desk; she had been writing "regrets" in answer to various
invitations. She turned a careworn face in his direction.

"What is it, Daddy?" she asked. "Mother is not worse, is she?"

"No, no; she's better, if anything. But that--er--Annette Black has come
and, long as she can't see Serena, she wants to talk to you."

"About her precious politics, I suppose."

"Your supposin' is as nigh right as anything mortal can be, Gertie.
That's what she wants."

"I can't see her. I don't want to see her. I don't want to hear the word
politics. I--"

"That's enough, that's enough. I'll 'tend to HER. You stay right here."

He descended to the drawing-room, where Annette was fidgeting on the
edge of a chair, and announced calmly that Gertrude was not at home.

The caller's agitation got the better of her temper.

"Nonsense!" she snapped. "I don't believe it. How do you know she
isn't?"

"Because she said so. Lovely mornin' for a walk, isn't it?"

Mrs. Black rose and stalked to the threshold. But there she turned once
more.

"If your wife knew," she cried hysterically, "how I, her best friend,
was treated in her house, she--she--"

Daniel stepped forward. "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Black," he said. "Maybe
I have been pretty plain spoken. I'm sorry if I've hurt your feelin's.
But, you see, we're all upset here. I'm upset, and Gertie's as much so
as the rest. She can't talk to you, or anybody else, now. I'm willin' to
try, but you say my talkin' won't do any good."

"Of course it won't. Oh, don't you SEE? I'm sorry Serena is not well,
but this is IMPORTANT."

"I know, but so's her health, 'cordin' to my thinkin'."

"If I might see her just a moment. It is so provoking. Just at this
critical time! Doesn't my--her election mean ANYTHING to you? Don't you
care about the cause?"

The captain shook his head. "All I'm carin' for is my wife, just now,"
he said. "She's all I can think about. If some of us had thought more
about her, maybe--" He stopped, cleared his throat, and added: "I know
you'll understand and forgive us, when you think it over. I'll tell her
you called. Good-mornin'."

If he supposed this was the end, he was mistaken. Annette was not so
easily whipped or discouraged. She called again that af