“Thanks to a good fight. Galpin tells me The Fair Dealer backers are through. We’ve scared the local advertisers out of their contracts and the paper can’t hold ’em because of the change of publication date. Verrall made a fatal break when he put a date in that contract. They’re through. But The Fair Dealer is going on.” “No! Who’s going to back it?” “Montrose Clark. He’s going to take it over.” “For his corporation campaign. I see. Then this means another fight of another kind on my hands.” “He’s going to use it to beat out Martin Embree with his own candidate.” Jeremy’s eyes narrowed. “You know The Guardian can’t and won’t stand for you fellows’ kind of candidate.” “You’ll stand for this one.” “Who is it?” “Jeremy Robson.” “Jer--Andy was right, _sure!_” gasped the other. “The town has gone crazy and I’ve gone with it.” “On a platform of Centralia for the War,” continued the other. “Now put your lower jaw back on its hinges and I’ll explain how this is n’t as crazy from our point of view as you’d think. You’ll be elected--for we’ll lick ‘Smiling Mart’--only for the unfinished term. The war will last that long, and while the war lasts internal polides don’t matter. After the war--why, we’ll have a newspaper of our own to lick you with when you come up for reelection.” “I’ll give you a good run both ways,” promised Jeremy. And the two men soberly shook hands upon it. “What a scheme; the woman’s boycott!” said Jeremy presently. “I might have known that was your fine Italian hand.” “It was n’t.” “No? Who did work it out?” “A much cleverer politician than I ever thought of being.” “There ain’t no sich animule,” denied Jeremy. “Show it to me.” “I have been sitting at the feet of Wisdom, Wile, and Woman. Her other name,” said Judge Dana, “is Marcia Ames. And my professional advice to you is to be on your way.” CHAPTER XXI “In dreams she grows not older The lands of Dream among--” THE deep, soft thrill of the contralto voice floated through the warm air on invisible wings. The listener, coming softly up the pathway of the old garden, paused to hearken, to drink it in, with the fragrance of the late roses, the wine of the sun-drenched air, the peace of the shaded ways, all the other lovelinesses of a world suddenly blessed to his soul. The voice faltered and sank, at the sound of his foot upon the steps. The singer’s hands strayed like suddenly affrighted things among the keys of the piano. She stood to face him as he entered, and of all the tremulous, tender beauty of her, only her eyes meeting and merging with his, were unwavering. “Jem!” she said, very low. “Marcia!” She lifted her arms as he crossed swiftly to her, and clung to him, and gave him her lips in glad and complete surrender, while he held her close and murmured to her the words that he had been so hungry to speak, she so hungry to hear. “Jem,” she whispered presently, “you cannot give me up now, Jem.”