Perhaps it was the flicker from the coals that made his face seem to her to have grown in a moment infinitely old; his keen, light eyes inexpressibly lonely and desolate. Undoubtedly so, for when he glanced up and saw she was not yet gone, there was no expression save the shadow of a sardonic grin stamped on his rugged features. Long and late Caleb Conover sat there alone in his big, silent study. The lamp on the table flickered, guttered and went out. The live coals died down to embers. The cold of early autumn crept through the great room, along with the encroaching darkness. The clock on the wall chimed. Then again, and a third time, but the Railroader sat motionless. At length he gathered himself together with an impatient grunt. He reached across to his table and drew from a drawer a gaudy velvet case. As he opened it, the dying firelight struck against a multi-pointed cluster of tiny lights. “She wouldn’t have took it from me,” Caleb grumbled, half-aloud, as though explaining to some invisible companion, “but I would ’a’ made Letty give it to her. It’d ’a’ looked fine against that soft baby throat of hers. Hell!” There was a swirling little eddy of cinders and sparks as the case crashed into the heart of the dull red embers. The Railroader had fallen back into his former cramped, awkward attitude of reflection. “First it was Jerry,” he whispered to the imaginary auditor among the shadows. “First Jerry. Then Blanche. And now—_her_. That’s worse than both the others put together. Not a one left.” The study door behind him was timidly opened. Caleb did not hear. “Not a one left!” he murmured again. “And——” “Is anything the matter, dear?” nervously queried his wife from the threshold. “It’s nearly——” “_You_ don’t count!” shouted Caleb Conover, with odd irrelevance. “Go to bed, can’t you?” CHAPTER XII CALEB CONOVER FIGHTS The real campaign was at last under way, and the Mountain State thrilled as never before in the history of politics. At a composite convention made up of the Republican and lesser parties of the State, and held almost directly after that of the Democrats, faction lines were cast aside and Clive Standish nominated by acclamation. Ansel had presided, and scores of bolting Democrats were in attendance. Then, in Granite and throughout the State, Clive began what is still recalled as his “whirlwind campaign.” Often ten speeches a day were delivered as he hurried from point to point. The reports of his meetings were sown broadcast, as was other legitimate campaign literature. Because of the daring and extraordinary course he had taken, as well as for the sane, practical reforms he advocated, he was everywhere listened to with growing interest. The Mountain State was at last awake—awake and hearkening eagerly to the voice of the man who had roused it from its Rip Van Winkle slumbers.