Flags painted the evening breeze; electric lights caught the colors, and multiplied, with long rays and long dancing shadows, the flags and the thronging multitude. There was a hum of contented voices through the square. The town was jubilant; things had gone well; it was the greatest occasion for years; no other city could boast such an ending as this to its liberty campaign--to have McIvor himself journey to them to give his voice for the cause! The six million of their allotment would be raised--McIvor’s voice was worth six million in itself. And still the crowd came, and when McIvor, muffled, appeared on the platform, everybody in the crowd recognized him, even across the uncertain lights and shadows and the waving flags and the moving branches of the elms of the square. Applause broke tumultuously from the amphitheatre of seats, from the shifting fringe outside, from far down converging streets. McIvor stepped sharply forward and bowed once, and then, before the clapping ended, had turned and was talking to Mr. Barron, to Eric Mannering, the chairman of the committee on arrangements. “It’s damnable,” he whispered. “You’ll have to tell them, Mr. Mannering. I hoped it might come back up to now, but it’s well gone. I can think of but one possible thing to do. If there’s a person in sight who can turn a tune and make a noise, fetch him up--and I’ll stand beside him and wish luck on him--if I can. It’s all I can do now,” and he coughed through the words. Eric, thunderstruck, stood bewildered. What could one do? McIvor was particularly all the show. How might any other man substitute for him? One could make a speech and explain the disaster and send the workers about to get what money they could from a disappointed crowd, and then one could let the crowd go home. What else? Suddenly, as his eyes stared helplessly into the rows of people, he met Honor’s clear gray gaze lifted. She had got a front seat as he had promised. There she was, twenty feet from him. Eric swung about. “Mr. McIvor,” he stammered, “you’ll think me presuming likely, but--my sister sings. She’s young, but she has a big voice.” McIvor’s eyebrows drew together, considering. The great man had forgotten an incident two years back. Yet “any port in a storm.” “Bring her,” he coughed, and in half a minute Eric was down in the audience, bending over a startled girl. Henry Barron, as the brother and sister made their way to the stage, went to the singer and the two spoke together a moment. The singer looked curiously at the young girl as she came to him.