“Oh, I know,” she cried; “I know you think I don't believe much in speeches, and I don't ordinarily, but a few, simple, straightforward and vigorous words from you, to-morrow, may carry the bill through. You've made such _progress_, you've been so _reserved_, that you'll carry great weight--and there are three votes of the drains and dikes that are against us now, but will follow yours absolutely. Do you think I would have 'cut' _you_ if it hadn't been _best_?” “But I--” “Oh, I know you didn't actually promise me to speak, that day. But I knew you would when the time came! I knew that a man of power goes over _all_ obstacles, once his sense of _right_ is aroused! I _knew_--I never doubted it, that once _you_ felt a thing to be right you would strike for it, with all your great strength--at all costs--at all--” “I can't--I--I--can't!” he whispered nervously. “Don't you see--don't you see--I--” She leaned toward him, lifting her face close to his. She was so near him that the faint odour of her hair came to him again, and once more the unfortunate Senator from Stackpole risked a meeting of his eyes with hers, and saw the light shining far down in their depths. At this moment the shadow of a portly man who was stroking his beard the wrong way projected itself upon them from the narrow, green entrance to the grotto. Neither of them perceived it. Senator Josephus Battle passed on, but when Alonzo Rawson emerged, a few moments later, he was pledged to utter a few simple, straightforward and vigorous words in favour of the bill. And--let the shame fall upon the head of the scribe who tells it--he had kissed Mrs. Protheroe! The fight upon the “Sunday Baseball Bill,” the next morning, was the warmest of that part of the session, though for a while the reporters were disappointed. They were waiting for Senator Battle, who was famous among them for the vituperative vigour of his attacks and for the kind of personalities which made valuable copy. And yet, until the debate was almost over, he contented himself with going quietly up and down the aisles, whispering to the occupants of the desks, and writing and sending a multitude of notes to his colleagues. Meanwhile, the orators upon both sides harangued their fellows, the lobby, the unpolitical audience, and the patient presiding officer to no effect, so far as votes went. The general impression was that the bill would pass. Alonzo Rawson sat, bent over his desk, his eyes fixed with gentle steadiness upon Mrs. Protheroe, who occupied the chair wherein he had first seen her. A senator of the opposition was finishing his denunciation, when she turned and nodded almost imperceptibly to the young man. He gave her one last look of pathetic tenderness and rose. “The Senator from Stackpole!” “I want,” Alonzo began, in his big voice: “I want to say a few simple, straightforward but vigorous words about this bill. You may remember I spoke against it on its second reading--”