And it was upon the President that Cousin Patty riveted her attention. To be sure her little feet beat time to the music, and she flushed and glowed as the soldiers swept by, and the horses danced, and the people cheered. But above and beyond all these things was the sight of the man, who in her eyes represented the resurrection of the South--the man who should sway it back to its old level in the affairs of the nation. "I couldn't have dreamed," she emphasized, as she talked it over that night with Mary, "of anything so satisfying as his smile. I shall always think of him as smiling out in that quiet way of his at the people." Mary had a vision of another Inauguration and of another President who had smiled--a President who had captured the hearts of his countrymen as perhaps this scholar never would. It was at the shrine of that strenuous and smiling President that Mary still worshiped. But they were both great men--it was for the future to tell which would live longest in the hearts of the people. The two women were in Cousin Patty's room. They were too excited to sleep, for the events of the day had been stimulating. Cousin Patty had suggested that Mary should get into something comfortable, and come back and talk. And Mary had come, in a flowing blue gown with her fair hair in shining braids. They were alone together for the first time since Cousin Patty's arrival. It was a moment for which Mary had waited eagerly, yet now that it had come to her, she hardly knew how to begin. But when she spoke, it was with an impulsive reaching out of her hands to the older woman. "Cousin Patty, tell me about Roger Poole." Cousin Patty hesitated, then asked a question, almost sharply, "My dear, why did you fail him?" The color flooded Mary's face. "Fail him?" she faltered. "Yes. When he first came to me, there were your letters. He used to read bits of them aloud, and I could see inspiration in them for him. Then he stopped reading them to me, and they seemed to bring heaviness with them--I can't tell you how unhappy he was until he began to make his work fill his life. Do you mind telling me what made the change in you, my dear?" Mary gazed into the fire, the blood still in her face. "Cousin Patty, did you know his wife?" "Yes. Is it because of her, Mary?" "Yes. After Roger went away, I saw her picture. Colin had painted it. And, Cousin Patty, it seemed the face of such a little--saint." "Yet Roger told you his story?" "Yes." "And you didn't believe him?" "Oh, I don't know what to believe." "I see," but Cousin Patty's manner was remote. Mary slipped down to the stool at Cousin Patty's feet, and brought her clear eyes to the level of the little lady's. "Dear Cousin Patty," she implored, "if you only know how I _want_ to believe in Roger Poole." Cousin Patty melted. "My dear," she said with decision, "I'm going to tell you everything."