During the late summer and autumn of that year Rhoda and her father and their friends watched with the keenest interest, as did people all over the country, the struggle in Illinois between Lincoln and Douglas. In the Cincinnati and New York papers they read the speeches, printed at length, of both the aspirants for senatorial honors, and on many an evening, gathered on the veranda of the Ware home or, after the evenings grew cool, around the fireplace in the living-room, they discussed all the features of that famous intellectual wrestling match. Horace Hardaker had been nominated for Congress by the Republican party and was conducting a vigorous campaign. Nevertheless, he found time to come frequently up the hill to Dr. Ware’s house for these talks. Marcia Kimball came also, at first with her brothers, but after a little Rhoda observed that it was oftener with Hardaker that she made her appearance and always upon his arm that she leaned when they went away. With an inward smile Rhoda noticed too that Horace, with apparent unconsciousness, began to address his conversation mainly toward Marcia. “I don’t expect to be elected,” he said one evening, “that is, not this time. But I’m giving the ground a good, deep plowing, and there’ll be a different crop to reap two years from now.” His opponent, a Douglas Democrat, won the day, but by so narrow a margin that Hardaker was almost as exultant as if he had been successful. “Two years more of the way things are going now,” he declared, “and we’ll sweep the country!” “Suppose you do, what good will it do?” said old Mr. Kimball. “Your Republican party expressly says it won’t interfere with slavery in the South.” “It will bring on a crisis,” interjected Dr. Ware, “and a crisis is exactly the thing we want. The South won’t stand a Republican president. And when she tries to leave the Union the upheaval will come.” Not long after the election Hardaker sought Rhoda in more buoyant mood than ever, to tell her that he and Marcia were to be married. She assured him that she was heartily glad, and really felt all that she said, and even more. But her sincere rejoicing did not prevent her from looking sadly out of her window that night and feeling that something very dear and pleasant had gone out of her life beyond all recovery. She would not, if she could, have held Hardaker’s love in fruitless thrall, but it had been so comforting, so gratifying, to know how surely it was hers and she had so grown to expect one of his recurrent proposals every year or so that it cost her a little wrench now to give it all up. “He’ll make Marcia a good, loving husband,” she thought, “and with his talent and ambition he’ll succeed. Oh, they’ll be happy, and I’m glad.”