"That first day I met you--here in the woods. My dream and my prince were always realities to me." CHAPTER IX The governor was indulging in the unwonted luxury of solitude in his private sanctum of the executive offices. The long line of politicians, office seekers, committees, and reporters had passed, and he was supposed to have departed also, but after his exit he had made a detour and returned to his private office. Then he sat down to face the knottiest problem that had as yet confronted him in connection with his official duties. An important act of the legislature awaited his signature or veto. Various pressing matters called for immediate action, but they were mere trifles compared to the issue pending upon an article he had read in a bi-weekly paper from one of the country districts. The article stated that a petition was being circulated to present to the governor, praying the pardon and release of Jud Brumble. Then had begun the great conflict in the mind of David Dunne, the "governor who could do no wrong." It was not a conflict between right and wrong that was being waged, for Jud had been one to the prison born. David reviewed the series of offenses Jud had perpetrated, punishment for which had ever been evaded or shifted to accomplices. He recalled the solemn promise the offender had made him long ago when, through David's efforts, he had been acquitted--a promise swiftly broken and followed by more daring transgressions, which had culminated in one enormous crime. He had been given the full penalty--fifteen years--a sentence in which a long-suffering community had rejoiced. Jud had made himself useful at times to a certain gang of ward heelers and petty politicians, who were the instigators of this petition, which they knew better than to present themselves. Had they done so, David's course would have been plain and easy; but the petition was to be conveyed directly and personally to the governor, so the article read, by the prisoner's father, Barnabas Brumble. By this method of procedure the petitioners showed their cunning as well as their knowledge of David Dunne. They knew that his sense of gratitude was as strong as his sense of accurate justice, and that to Barnabas he attributed his first start in life; that he had, in fact, literally blazed the political trail that had led him from a country lawyer to the governorship of his state. There were other ties, other reasons, of which these signers knew not, that moved David to heed a petition for release should it be presented. Again he seemed to see his mother's imploring eyes and to hear her impressive voice. Again he felt around his neck the comforting, chubby arms of the criminal's little sister. Her youthful guilelessness and her inherent goodness had never recognized evil in her wayward brother, and she would look confidently to "Davey" for service, as she had done in the old days of country schools and meadow lanes.