rally
around him for a little while--it's a sort of revival sentiment. But you
are not a General Waymouth. He'll be excused by sentiment, you'll simply
be branded as one of the common run of ramrodders who try to achieve the
impossible with human nature--a disturbing element in State
politics--and your career will be spoiled. Now I've delivered my
message, and done what I promised your grandfather I'd do."

She turned her horse, and started him back toward town.

There was silence between them for a time.

"So, if I weren't Thelismer Thornton's grandson you wouldn't take any
interest in me at all?" he inquired, sourly.

"A very impudent and unnecessary question, Mr. Harlan Thornton. I'm
afraid your grandfather is right--you have stayed in the woods too
long."

Longer silence.

He was more humble when he spoke again. "I don't want you to think I'm
what I may seem to be, Miss Presson. But what is there I can do in
politics, just now, different from what I'm doing? I have taken my side
with the General. I propose to stay there, of course. But I do not want
to have people think I'm a fool. And I haven't heard much else from any
one since I started out." There was wistfulness in his voice. He
suddenly felt drawn to her. He craved her counsel. It was the mastery of
the woman, more worldly-wise. He was bewildered and ashamed. The image
of Clare Kavanagh was not dimmed in his soul. She had been with him
daily in his thoughts. He knew that he felt affection for her. It was
tenderness, desire to protect, the real impulse of the man toward his
mate. But the feeling was all unexpressed and incoherent.

And yet Madeleine Presson, more than ever before, attracted him
powerfully. She had the elements that he had never seen and experienced
in womankind. Just at that moment she dominated, for his passion had
betrayed him into a rather puerile outbreak.

Subtle analysis of the emotions was beyond him. He did not understand.
His life had trained him along more primitive lines of selection. But he
realized now that he was trying to probe something in his soul that
defied his rather limited powers of judging. He had not given his heart
unreservedly, he had not pledged himself. Clare Kavanagh had repented of
a child's weakness and had run away from him, vaguely hinting that she
would forget him. This masterful young woman, driving him back to town,
her determined profile outlined against the gloom as he gazed shyly at
her, did not