enomination. It had been a
labor of love, and Kittrell suddenly realized how good it was. He had
put into it all of his belief in Clayton, all of his devotion to the
cause for which Clayton toiled and sacrificed, and in the simple lines
he experienced the artist's ineffable felicity; he had shown how good,
how noble, how true a man Clayton was. All at once he realized the
sensation the cartoon would produce, how it would delight and hearten
Clayton's followers, how it would please Hardy, and how it would touch
Clayton. It would be a tribute to the man and the friendship, but now a
tribute broken, unfinished. Kittrell gazed a moment longer, and in that
moment Edith came.

"The dear, beautiful soul!" she exclaimed softly. "Neil, it is
wonderful. It is not a cartoon; it is a portrait. It shows what you
might do with a brush."

Kittrell could not speak, and he turned the drawing-board to the wall.

When he had gone, Edith sat and thought--of Neil, of the new position,
of Clayton. He had loved Neil, and been so proud of his work; he had
shown a frank, naive pleasure in the cartoons Neil had made of him. That
last time he was there, thought Edith, he had said that without Neil the
"good old cause," as he called it, using Whitman's phrase, could never
have triumphed in that town. And now, would he come again? Would he ever
stand in that room and, with his big, hearty laugh, clasp an arm around
Neil's shoulder, or speak of her in his good friendly way as "the little
woman?" Would he come now, in the terrible days of the approaching
campaign, for rest and sympathy--come as he used to come in other
campaigns, worn and weary from all the brutal opposition, the
vilification and abuse and mud-slinging? She closed her eyes. She could
not think that far.

Kittrell found the task of telling Hardy just as difficult as he
expected it to be, but by some mercy it did not last long. Explanation
had not been necessary; he had only to make the first hesitating
approaches, and Hardy understood. Hardy was, in a way, hurt; Kittrell
saw that, and rushed to his own defense:

"I hate to go, old man. I don't like it a little bit--but, you know,
business is business, and we need the money."

He even tried to laugh as he advanced this last conclusive reason, and
Hardy, for all he showed in voice or phrase, may have agreed with him.

"It's all right, Kit," he said. "I'm sorry; I wish we could pay you
more, but--well, good luck."

That was all