great
sacrifice which his duty required of him.

After supper Mr. Wetherell took a seat in the rotunda. As an observer of
human nature, he had begun to find a fascination in watching the group
of politicians there. First of all he encountered Mr. Amos Cuthbert,
his little coal-black eyes burning brightly, and he was looking very
irritable indeed.

"So you're going to the show, Amos?" remarked the storekeeper, with an
attempt at cordiality.

To his bewilderment, Amos turned upon him fiercely.

"Who said I was going to the show?" he snapped.

"You yourself told me."

"You'd ought to know whether I'm a-goin' or not," said Amos, and walked
away.

While Mr. Wetherell sat meditating, upon this inexplicable retort,
a retired, scholarly looking gentleman with a white beard, who wore
spectacles, came out of the door leading from the barber shop and
quietly took a seat beside him. The storekeeper's attention was next
distracted by the sight of one who wandered slowly but ceaselessly from
group to group, kicking up his heels behind, and halting always in the
rear of the speakers. Needless to say that this was our friend Mr. Bijah
Bixby, who was following out his celebrated tactics of "going along by
when they were talkin' sly." Suddenly Mr. Bixby's eye alighted on Mr.
Wetherell, who by a stretch of imagination conceived that it expressed
both astonishment and approval, although he was wholly at a loss to
understand these sentiments. Mr. Bixby winked--Mr. Wetherell was sure
of that. But to his surprise, Bijah did not pause in his rounds to greet
him.

Mr. Wetherell was beginning to be decidedly uneasy, and was about to
go upstairs, when Mr. Merrill came down the rotunda whistling, with
his hands in his pockets. He stopped whistling when he spied the
storekeeper, and approached him in his usual hearty manner.

"Well, well, this is fortunate," said Mr. Merrill; "how are you, Duncan?
I want you to know Mr. Wetherell. Wetherell writes that weekly letter
for the Guardian you were speaking to me about last year. Will, this is
Mr. Alexander Duncan, president of the 'Central.'"

"How do you do, Mr. Wetherell?" said the scholarly gentleman with the
spectacles, putting out his hand. "I'm glad to meet you, very glad,
indeed. I read your letters with the greatest pleasure."

Mr. Wetherell, as he took Mr. Duncan's hand, had a variety of emotions
which may be imagined, and need not be set down in particular.

"Funny thing," Mr.