“One forms one’s own conclusions.” “And yours are——” “Quite formed.” “Anice!” exclaimed Standish impatiently, “nature never cut you out for a Sybil. Can’t you be frank? If you only knew what your approval—your good wishes—mean to me, you would be kinder.” “There are surely enough people who encourage you and——” “No, there are not. I want _your_ encouragement, _your_ faith; just as I had it when we were boy and girl together, you and I!” “You forget, I am in the employ of Mr. Conover. As long as I accept his wages, would it be loyal of me to——” “Then why accept them? If only——” “One must make a living in some way. I have other reasons, too.” “That same wretched old mystery again! As for making a living, that’s a different thing, and it has changed too many lives. Once, years ago, for instance, when I was struggling to make a living—and a bare, scant one at that—I kept silent when my heart clamored to speak. I kept silent because I had no right to ask any woman to share my hard luck. But now I’m on my feet. I’ve made the ‘living’ you talk about. And there’s enough of it for two. So I——” “I congratulate you on your success,” said the girl nervously. “Here is my corner. I must hurry back. I’ve a long evening’s work to——” “Anice!” “Good-by!” “You _must_ hear me. I——” “Hello, Miss Lanier! Parleying with the enemy, eh? Come, come, that isn’t playing square. ’Evening, Standish!” Caleb Conover, crossing the street from the side entrance of his own grounds, had confronted the two before they noted his approach. Looking from one to the other, he grinned amusedly. “I’ve heard there was more’n one leak in our camp,” he went on, “but I never s’posed _this_ was it.” Trembling with confusion, perhaps with some deeper emotion, Anice nevertheless answered coolly: “I hope my absence hasn’t delayed any of your work? I was on my way back, when you——” “Now look at that,” exclaimed Caleb with genuine admiration. “Here’s my hated enemy as red and rattled as if I’d caught him stuffing ballot-boxes or cheering for Conover! And the lady in the case is as cool as cucumbers, and she don’t bat an eye. Standish, she’s seven more kinds of a man than you are, or ever will be, for all your big shoulders and bigger line of talk. Well, we won’t keep you any longer, son. No use askin’ you in, I s’pose? No? Then maybe I’ll drop around to your meeting this evening. I’d ’a’ come before, but it always makes me bashful to hear myself praised to the public. Good night.” It was late that evening when Clive reached his rooms, for a few brief hours of rest before setting forth on his tour of the State. He was tired out, discouraged, miserable. His much-heralded meeting had been the dreariest sort of fiasco. Scarcely had the opening address begun and the crowded house warmed up to the occasion, when every light in the building had been switched off.