He did not know how well he was
writing, nor what a vivid picture he was presenting to the vast Eastern
population to whom Jimmy Grayson was as yet but a name. It was a
despatch that became famous, reprinted all over the Union, and quoted as
the first description of the candidate as he really was--that is, of the
man. And yet Harley, reading it days later, recognized in it something
that nobody else saw. It was a blend. In every fourth line Sylvia Morgan
again, and despite his efforts, had obtruded herself. He had borrowed
something from her to add to Jimmy Grayson, and he felt that he had been
seeking excuses for her manner.

But this fact did not impinge upon Harley now, when he read the
despatch preparatory to filing it at Chicago. He merely felt that he had
made an attempt to solve Jimmy Grayson, and in doing so had fulfilled
his duty.

As he folded up the article the loud voice of Hobart hailed him from the
other end of the car, and he beheld that irresponsible man entering with
the candidate's niece.

"You see what he has been about all this time, Miss Morgan?" said
Hobart. "He has been at work. Harley, you know, is the only
conscientious man among us."

"I have remarked already his devotion to duty," she said, sedately; "but
do you think, Mr. Hobart, we should disturb him now? We do not know that
he has finished his task."

Harley flushed. He did not wish to be thought a prig or one who made a
pretence of great industry, and, although Miss Morgan's voice was
without expression, he believed that irony lay hidden somewhere in it.

"You are mistaken," he said; "my work is over, for the time, at least.
It was something that had to be done, or I should not have stolen off
here alone."

Then he went back with them to the Grayson car, where a joyous group had
gathered. Mr. and Mrs. Grayson were in the drawing-room, with the door
shut, working upon the candidate's speech at Chicago, Harley surmised,
and hence there was no restraint. Of this group the girl from Idaho was
the centre and the sun. She seemed to be on good terms with them all, to
the great surprise of Harley, who had known her longer than they, and
who had not been able to get on with her at all, and he sat rather on
the fringe of the throng, saying but little.

Again she inspired him with hostility; she seemed, as before, too bold,
too boisterous, too much the mountain maid, although he could not
analyze any particular incident as wrong in itself.