inting, postage, and mailing of those statements--a bitter
expense, indeed, considering the nature of the promises. Presson saw
only gratuitous stirring of trouble in the hateful declarations the
General made. It was his theory that in politics voters never arose and
demanded reforms until some disturber shook them up and reminded them
that reforms were needed.

General Waymouth did not take the stump. His age forbade. He remained
away from headquarters. But Harlan Thornton was posted there, his
vigilant representative and executive. In his attitude toward Harlan the
State chairman ran the gamut of cajolery, spleen, wrath, and
resentment--and final disgust. It was a situation almost intolerable for
Presson. But a chain of circumstances--events unescapable and unique in
politics--bound him to the wheel of the victor.

Harlan understood the chairman's state of mind. Day by day he made his
discourse with that gentleman as brief as possible, and he kept away
from the Presson home. His action was dictated by a feeling of delicacy,
in view of the father's sentiments. Presson treated him in business
hours as a prisoner would treat his ball and chain. And Presson showed
no desire to take that badge of his servitude home with him. Enduring
Harlan in the committee headquarters strained his self-possession daily.

So the young man lied brazenly in reply to the blandly courteous notes
of invitation from Mrs. Presson, who continued alert to the promising
social qualifications of General Waymouth's chief lieutenant. He pleaded
work. It was true in a measure. The day was filled with duties to which
he applied himself unflaggingly.

But from the supper-table he hurried out each evening into the country,
escaping from the city by the side streets, tramping miles of lane and
highway and field. His muscles craved the exertion. The city oppressed
him. His unwonted toil within four walls sapped his energy.

One evening he stepped aside from the highway. A horse, trotting
smartly, was overtaking him. But the horse did not pass him. It slowed
down to his stride, and Madeleine Presson called him from her trap. She
was alone.

"As this is the campaign of 'honesty,' I'll be honest with you," she
said. "This is not an accidental meeting. I have been guessing at the
roads you might take, and have been on your trail for days. That's a
bold confession for a girl to make; but I've got even a bolder request:
please climb up here and ride."

He