ears.
He believed that the square deal could not be hidden from those who
entered public life in that manner.

He did not discuss all this with his grandfather. If he had, Thelismer
Thornton would have been vastly interested. He might have been amused.
Probably he would have been more amused than interested, for hot youth
and glowing ideals have humorous phases for the man who has lived among
men for more than eighty years.

But that he had unloosed a bottle imp in his own family would not have
occurred to the old man, even after he had listened, for he still had
the cynical belief that circumstances must control, interest convert,
and personal profit kill the most glowing ardor in reform.

Lacking the gift of divination, Thelismer Thornton watched the rapid
development of this bottle imp with much complacency. "Whispering"
Urban Cobb brought him reports from the field. Talleyrand Sylvester was
trying to place bets on Harlan Thornton, but there were no takers. It
was even stated that Enoch Dudley was finding it hard work to secure
pledges enough to warrant his running as an independent candidate.

Harlan Thornton, looking in from the outside, had found politics, as
managed _for_ him, an abhorrent mess. Now, plunged in, he was embracing
his opportunity, and finding good in the contest.

On the other hand, Harlan Thornton, making his own plea and his own
pledges as a candidate, was embraced by the voters. He was not a mere
legatee forced on them by a boss--he was speaking for himself, and the
sincerity of the young man made itself felt.

At the end of the appointed two days he knew that his prospects were
safe. One of the other towns in the district and three of the
plantations had endorsed his name in caucus. If Thelismer Thornton had
been responsible for his candidacy, so was his own personality
responsible for this clearing away of difficulties. He felt his
self-respect returning. That cruel wound to his pride was healing.

He was riding home in the evening of the second day, past the end of the
long bridge, finding comfort in this thought.

A white figure, framed in the black mouth of the bridge, startled rider
and horse.

"It's only Clare," she said. "I heard you were up the river to-day, and
I've been waiting for you."

He rode closer. It was a new and strange Clare who was revealed to him
in the dim light. She was gowned and gloved, and her broad hat hid her
boyish curls. She walked out of the gloom an