h the blood of battle throbbing in his veins. In
the morning he had a reasonable joy in seeing the headlines of his
candidature in the papers.

At first he was almost appalled, for never since life began had his
personality been so displayed. It seemed absurd that before he had
struck a blow he should be advertised like a general in the field.
Yet common sense told him that in standing against Barouche, he became
important in the eyes of those affected by Barouche's policy. He had had
luck, and it was for him to justify that luck. Could he do it? His first
thought, however, as his eyes fell on the headlines--he flushed with
elation so that he scarcely saw--was for the thing itself. Before him
there flashed a face, however, which at once sobered his exaltation. It
was the face of Junia.

"I wonder what she will think," he said to himself, with a little
perplexity.

He knew in his heart of hearts she would not think it incongruous that
he, an artist, should become a politician. Good laws served to make life
beautiful, good pictures ministered to beauty; good laws helped to tell
the story of human development; good sculpture strengthened the soul;
good laws made life's conveniences greater, enlarged activity, lessened
the friction of things not yet adjusted; good laws taught their
framers how to balance things, how to make new principles apply without
disturbing old rights; good pictures increased the well-balanced harmony
of the mind of the people. Junia would understand these things. As he
sat at his breakfast, with the newspaper spread against the teapot and
the milk-pitcher, he felt satisfied he had done the bold and right, if
incomprehensible, thing.

But in another hotel, at another breakfast, another man read of Carnac's
candidature with sickening surprise. It was Barode Barouche.

So, after twenty-seven long years, this was to be the issue! His own
son, whom he had never known, was to fight him at the polls! Somehow,
the day when he had seen Carnac and his mother at the political meeting
had given him new emotions. His wife, to whom he had been so faithful in
one sense since she had passed into the asylum, had died, and with her
going, a new field of life seemed to open up to him. She had died
almost on the same day as John Grier. She had been buried secludedly,
piteously, and he had gone back to his office with the thought that life
had become a preposterous freedom.

So it was that, on the day when he spok