e
Barracks," smoking and looking out across the river valley.

The spirit in which he had left that hateful legislature seemed to have
departed from the Duke. The old quizzical glint was in his eyes as he
grasped Harlan's hand. After their greeting they sat together in
silence.

"It's a beautiful game, hey, my boy?" remarked the Duke, at last. "I see
that some of the country papers have already begun to talk of you for
Governor of the State. The editors haven't seen you, but from what
they've heard they probably think you're a hundred years old and have
grown to enormous size!"

"Don't make game of me, grandfather," said Harlan, coloring.

"Oh, I'm only expressing a wicked hope. There are some men in this State
that I'd like to see punished to that extent." He chuckled. "Put me down
for fifty thousand dollars, first subscriber to your campaign fund."

"I can appreciate the humor of that joke," said Harlan. "For I've had a
liberal education in the past year--I've found out just how little I
know." He added wearily, "And I've found out how hard it is to be what
you want to be."

His grandfather tipped his head back into his clasped hands, his
characteristic attitude. He squinted out across the hills.

"Bub," he said, "I had the first real blow of my life the other day. A
man pointed me out on the train and told another man, loud enough so
that I overheard him, that I was Harlan Thornton's grandfather--'and I
forget his first name,' he said, 'it begins with T.'"

They ate supper together in the old mess-hall, back on their former
footing. Word by word it came out of the Duke--his admiration for this
boy who had made his own way. Every blow he had dealt his grandfather's
personal pride had brought the reactionary glow of appreciation of this
scion who could hit so hard and so surely.

He watched him saddle his horse after supper. He did not ask where he
was going.

Harlan did not know. His longing drew him down the long street and
across the big bridge, his horse walking slowly.

CHAPTER XXVIII

ONE PROBLEM SOLVED

The dusk was cool and soft. Below him the current gurgled against the
piers with sounds as though the river's fairies laughed there in the
gloom. Doves nestled against the rafters of the bridge above, stirring
with tired murmurings.

When he came out under the stars he saw the red eyes of Dennis
Kavanagh's house. The sight of them put the peace of the sky and fields
out of his heart. He