t but
little satisfaction, and the kind ones thought her cold, and they did
not perceive that she was really grateful for their little attentions.
Gratitude, on such occasions, does not always consist in pouring out
one's troubles in the laps of visitors.

So the visitors went home, wondering whether it were worth while after
all to interest themselves in the cause of such a self-contained and
self-reliant young woman. In spite of all her efforts, Cynthia had never
wholly succeeded in making most of the Brampton ladies believe that she
did not secretly deem herself above them. They belonged to a reserved
race themselves; but Cynthia had a reserve which was even different from
their own.

As night drew on the predictions of Mr. Worthington seemed likely to be
fulfilled, and it looked as if Judge Graves would have a useless bill
to pay for gas in the new town hall. The judge had never been a man who
could compel a following, and he had no magnetism with which to lead
a cause: the town tradesmen, especially those in the new brick block,
would be chary as to risking the displeasure of their best customer.
At half-past seven Mr. Graves: came in, alone, and sat on the platform
staring grimly at his gas. Is there a lecturer, or, a playwright, or
a politician, who has not, at one time or another, been in the judge's
place? Who cannot sympathize with him as he watched the thin and
hesitating stream of people out of the corner of his eye as they came in
at the door? The judge despised them with all his soul, but it is human
nature not to wish to sit in a hall or a theatre that is three-quarters
empty.

At sixteen minutes to eight a mild excitement occurred, an incident of
some significance which served to detain many waverers. Senator Peleg
Hartington walked up the aisle, and the judge rose and shook him by the
hand, and as Deacon Hartington he was invited to sit on the platform.
The senator's personal influence was not to be ignored; and it had
sufficed to carry his district in the last election against the
Worthington forces, in spite of the abdication of Jethro Bass. Mr. Page,
the editor of the Clarion, Senator Hartington's organ, was also on the
platform. But where was Mr. Ives? Where was that Gamaliel who had been
such a warm partisan in the postoffice that morning?

"Saw him outside the hall--wahn't but ten minutes ago," said Deacon
Hartington, sadly; "thought he was a-comin' in."

Eight o'clock came, and no Mr. Ives;