fought out his battle. A terrible war, that, between ambition and
pride--a war to the knife. The issue may yet have been undecided when he
turned round to Jethro with a sneer which he could not resist.

"Why doesn't she marry him without my consent?"

In a moment Mr. Worthington knew he had gone too far. A certain kind of
an eye is an incomparable weapon, and armed men have been cowed by those
who possess it, though otherwise defenceless. Jethro Bass had that kind
of an eye.

"G-guess you wouldn't understand if I was to tell you," he said.

Mr. Worthington walked to the window again, perhaps to compose himself,
and then came back again.

"Your proposition is," he said at length, "that if I give my consent to
this marriage, we are to have Bixby and the governor, and the
Consolidation Bill will become a law. Is that it?"

"Th-that's it," said Jethro, taking his accustomed seat.

"And this consent is to be given when the bill becomes a law?"

"Given now. T-to-night."

Mr. Worthington took another turn as far as the door, and suddenly came
and stood before Jethro.

"Well, I consent."

Jethro nodded toward the table.

"Er--pen and paper there," he said.

"What do you want me to do?" demanded Mr. Worthington.

"W-write to Bob--write to Cynthy. Nice letters."

"This is carrying matters with too high a hand, Mr. Bass. I will write
the letters to-morrow morning." It was intolerable that he, the first
citizen of Brampton, should have to submit to such humiliation.

"Write 'em now. W-want to see 'em."

"But if I give you my word they will be written and sent to you to-morrow
afternoon?"

"T-too late," said Jethro; "sit down and write 'em now."

Mr. Worthington went irresolutely to the table, stood for a minute, and
dropped suddenly into the chair there. He would have given anything
(except the realization of his ambitions) to have marched out of the room
and to have slammed the door behind him. The letter paper and envelopes
which Jethro had bought stood in a little pile, and Mr. Worthington
picked up the pen. The clock struck two as he wrote the date, as though
to remind him that he had written it wrong. If Flint could see him now!
Would Flint guess? Would anybody guess? He stared at the white paper, and
his rage came on again like a gust of wind, and he felt that he would
rather beg in the streets than write such a thing. And yet--and yet he
sat there. Surely Jethro Bass must have known that he could hav