June so far was like other Junes in Green River. Colonel Everard and the
season of social and political intrigues were here. Rallies in the town
hall would soon begin. Men with big names in state politics would make
speeches there, while the Colonel presided with his usual self-effacing
charm, which did not advertise the known fact that he was a bigger power
in the state than any of them. The good old question of prohibition was
the chief issue, as usual; discreet representatives of the people
would, according to a catch phrase at the capital, vote for prohibition,
and then go round to the best hotel and get drunk; and discreet
politicians, like the Colonel, would make money out of both these facts
in their own way.

Behind the closed door of Judge Saxon's office low-keyed, monotonous
voices were talking, and a secret conference was going on. Troubled
times were here again for those deep in the Colonel's councils. They
were never sure of a permanent place there, but always on the watch for
one of his sudden changes of front, which threatened not only his
enemies but his friends. But he had recovered and held their confidence
before, and he could this year.

All scandals of the year before were decently hidden. Maggie Brady was
missing and continued to be missing. By this time it was the general
verdict that she had always been bound to come to a bad end, and Charlie
Brady to drink himself to death. Nobody interrupted his attempts to do
so. His drunken outburst of speech had echoed a growing sentiment in the
town, but it grew slowly, for under its thin veneer of sophistication
Green River was only a New England town still, conservative and slow to
change.

Green River had not changed much in a year, but Neil Donovan's fortunes
had. Nobody knew the full history of the change except Neil, but others
could have thrown sidelights upon it, among them Mrs. Randall's second
maid, Mollie. On the morning after that same party of the Colonel's,
which Mr. Brady attended so unexpectedly, and Judith did not attend,
Mollie opened the Randalls' door to an early caller.

Even in curl papers, she was usually too much for the young man now on
the doorstep. He was in the habit of looking at his boots and addressing
them instead of her, and Mollie quite understood that, for they were
shabby boots. They looked shabbier than ever to-day, and so did his
shiny coat, but his eyes were steady and clear, and there was clear
colour in his che