" he replied.

"What did it come to?" she demanded.

He hesitated.

"I had to go down to the capital, on my father's account, but I did not
go to the convention. I stayed," he said slowly, "at the little cottage
across from the Duncan house where--you were last winter." He paused,
but she gave no sign. "Tom Gaylord came up there late in the afternoon,
and wanted me to be a candidate."

"And you refused?"

"Yes."

"But you could have been nominated!"

"Yes," he admitted; "it is probable. The conditions were chaotic."

"Are you sure you have done right?" she asked. "It has always seemed
to me from what I know and have heard of you that you were made for
positions of trust. You would have been a better governor than the man
they have nominated."

His expression became set.

"I am sure I have done right," he answered deliberately. "It doesn't
make any difference who is governor this time."

"Doesn't make any difference!" she exclaimed.

"No," he said. "Things have changed--the people have changed. The old
method of politics, which was wrong, although it had some justification
in conditions, has gone out. A new and more desirable state of affairs
has come. I am at liberty to say this much to you now," he added, fixing
his glance upon her, "because my father has resigned as counsel for the
Northeastern, and I have just had a talk with--Mr. Flint."

"You have seen my father?" she asked, in a low voice, and her face was
averted.

"Yes," he answered.

"You--did not agree," she said quickly.

His blood beat higher at the question and the manner of her asking it,
but he felt that he must answer it honestly, unequivocally, whatever the
cost.

"No, we did not agree. It is only fair to tell you that we
differed--vitally. On the other hand, it is just that you should know
that we did not part in anger, but, I think, with a mutual respect."

She drew breath.

"I knew," she said, "I knew if he could but talk to you he would
understand that you were sincere--and you have proved it. I am glad--I
am glad that you saw him." The quality of the sunlight changed, the very
hills leaped, and the river sparkled. Could she care? Why did she wish
her father to know that he was sincere.

"You are glad that I saw him!" he repeated.

But she met his glance steadily.

"My father has so little faith in human nature," she answered. "He has
a faculty of doubting the honesty of his opponents--I suppose because
so many of them