equally before the vulgar crowd, who
seemed to regard this man as their own buffoon, and the pompousness of
position, learning and dignity, which he seemed to delight to shake and
disturb.

One afternoon, a few days later, in sheer listlessness of purpose,
he found himself again at the White House. The President was giving
audience to a deputation of fanatics, who, with a pathetic simplicity
almost equal to his own pathetic tolerance, were urging upon this ruler
of millions the policy of an insignificant score, and Brant listened to
his patient, practical response of facts and logic, clothed in
simple but sinewy English, up to the inevitable climax of humorous
illustration, which the young brigadier could now see was necessary to
relieve the grimness of his refusal. For the first time Brant felt
the courage to address him, and resolved to wait until the deputation
retired. As they left the gallery he lingered in the ante-room for
the President to appear. But, as he did not come, afraid of losing his
chances, he returned to the gallery. Alone in his privacy and shadow,
the man he had just left was standing by a column, in motionless
abstraction, looking over the distant garden. But the kindly, humorous
face was almost tragic with an intensity of weariness! Every line of
those strong, rustic features was relaxed under a burden which even
the long, lank, angular figure--overgrown and unfinished as his own
West--seemed to be distorted in its efforts to adjust itself to; while
the dark, deep-set eyes were abstracted with the vague prescience of the
prophet and the martyr. Shocked at that sudden change, Brant felt his
cheek burn with shame. And he was about to break upon that wearied man's
unbending; he was about to add his petty burden to the shoulders of this
Western Atlas. He drew back silently, and descended the stairs.

But before he had left the house, while mingling with the crowd in one
of the larger rooms, he saw the President reappear beside an important,
prosperous-looking figure, on whom the kindly giant was now smiling with
humorous toleration. He noticed the divided attention of the crowd; the
name of Senator Boompointer was upon every lip; he was nearly face to
face with that famous dispenser of place and preferment--this
second husband of Susy! An indescribable feeling--half cynical, half
fateful--came over him. He would not have been surprised to see Jim
Hooker join the throng, which now seemed to him to ev