ould not resist. It was from the citizens of
Crow's Wing, forty miles deeper into the yet higher and steeper
mountains, and they recounted, in mournful words, how no candidate ever
came to see them; all passed them by as either too few or too difficult,
and they had never yet listened to the spell of oratory; of course, they
did not expect the nominee of a great party for the Presidency of the
United States to make the hard trip and speak to them, when even the
little fellows ignored their existence; nevertheless, they wished to
inform him in writing that they were alive, and on the map, at least,
they made as big a dot as either Helena or Butte.

The candidate smiled when he read the letter. The tone of it moved him.
Moreover, he was not deficient in policy--no man who rises is--and while
Crow's Wing had but few votes, Montana was close, and a single state
might decide the Union.

"Those people at Crow's Wing do not expect me, but I shall go to them,"
he said to his train.

"Why, it's a full day's journey and more, over the roughest and rockiest
road in America," said Mr. Curtis, the state senator from Wyoming, who
was still with them.

"I shall go," said Jimmy Grayson, decisively. "There is a break here in
our schedule, and this trip will fit in very nicely."

The others were against it, but they said nothing more in opposition,
knowing that it would be of no avail. Obliging, generous, and
soft-hearted, the candidate, nevertheless, had a temper of steel when
his mind was made up, and the others had learned not to oppose it. But
all shunned the journey with him to Crow's Wing except Harley, Mr.
Plummer, Mr. Herbert Heathcote--because there is no zeal like that of
the converted--and one other.

That "other" was Sylvia, and she insisted upon going, refusing to listen
to all the good arguments that were brought against it. "I know that I
am only a woman--a girl," she said, "but I know, too, that I've lived
all my life in the mountains, and I understand them. Why, I've been on
harder journeys than this with daddy before I was twelve years old.
Haven't I, daddy?" As she had predicted, she forgot his request not to
call him "daddy."

Thus appealed to, Mr. Plummer was fain to confess the truth, though with
reluctance. However, he said, rather weakly:

"But you don't know what kind of weather we'll have, Sylvia."

Then she turned upon him in a manner that terrified him.

"Now, daddy, if I couldn't get up a better a