feeling, she appealed to Harley about the sixth or seventh day of the
campaign for his opinion on its result, and the correspondent hesitated
over his answer. He found that his feeling towards her in this week had
changed greatly, the elements in her character, which at first seemed to
him masculine and forward, were now much modified and softened; always
the picture of that child in the mountains, alone among her dead, rose
before him, and then followed the picture of the little girl borne away
on his saddle-bow by the brave borderer. He would think of her now with
a singular softness, a real pity for those misty days which she herself
had almost forgotten. Hence he hesitated, because what he deemed to be
the truth would have in it a sting for her. But her clear eyes instantly
read his hesitation.

"You need not be afraid to tell me your real opinion, Mr. Harley," she
said. "If you think the chances are against Uncle James, I should like
you to say so."

"I do think they are against him now, although they may not be so later
on," replied he, equivocating with himself a little. "It is an uphill
fight, and then one can easily deceive one's self; in a nation of eighty
or ninety millions even a minority can surround a candidate with a
multitude of people and a storm of enthusiasm."

"But Uncle James is the greatest campaigner ever nominated for the
Presidency," she said, "and we shall yet win."

Harley said nothing in reply, but he gladly noticed her refusal to be
discouraged, like other people having an admiration for courage and
spirit. In fact, it seemed to him that she had a cheerfulness somewhat
beyond the occasion.

Three days later--they were in Pittsburg then--she received a letter
addressed in a strong, heavy hand, her name being spelled in large
letters. Sylvia Morgan was alone in the hotel parlor when it was brought
to her, and a strange shadow, or rather the shadow of a shadow, came
over her face as she held it uneasily in her fingers and looked at the
Idaho postmark in the corner. She knew the handwriting well, and she
knew that it was a true index to the character of its author--rough,
strong, and large. That handwriting could not lie, neither could he. She
continued to hesitate, with the letter in her hand; it was the first
time that she had ever done so with a letter of his, and she felt that
she was disloyal. She heard a voice in the other parlor--the wide doors
between were open; it was the voice of