The next day, after the governor had departed for St. John, I was talking with Duncan Hale, who had remained. 'What a fine thing it was that the governor got lost?' Duncan said. 'Yes,' I said, 'it drew out the people's sympathy, binding them together, and showing them the governor in a new light.' 'But it did more than that.' Duncan was smiling. 'Didn't you know that last night the governor met a number of the leading people of the river, and that, after explaining to them that you had really saved his life by finding him in the woods, the people unanimously agreed to nominate and elect you their representative in the new Assembly of the province? Didn't you know that?' 'No,' I said. 'I don't believe it.' 'They did it though. You'll find out when the time comes in the fall. And that was not the only matter arranged last night.' I saw a look of mischievous interest grow on the old schoolmaster's face. 'What more, Duncan?' I said. 'Go on.' 'Did you see that tall, fine-looking young Englishman--the governor's secretary--who took the long walk through the meadows and by the river with Caroline in the evening?' 'Well?' I said. 'Well, you heard the governor make a prediction about this country; I am going to make a prediction about that young man and Caroline. They'll be married!' He came near and laid his hand on my arm. 'Do you know,' he said, 'that there is only a single life,--a man of seventy-four,--between that young man and a dukedom?' I laughed heartily. Soon I was calling at the top of my voice, 'Caroline! Caroline!' * * * * * In the late fall of the same year I was sitting one evening, with my mother and sisters, around an open fire. The elections were over--the report from the farthest parish had come in. A great happiness sat on my mother's face. 'To think,' she said, 'that you were really elected, Roger, and at the head of the poll too.' I did not answer. Something about the room and the way we were seated had suggested to me another occasion, another evening, when, the day after the fight at Lexington, over eight years ago, in deep sorrow, we had gathered in the library of our former home at Cambridge, to make plans for the future. But I recalled my thoughts. 'Yes, mother,' I said, 'there is no doubt of it. I have been elected. Things have not turned out so badly for us after all. Indeed, I do not know a single one of our acquaintances who is not happier than before the war. Doctor Canfield's new church is quite magnificent, Duncan Hale's school is fast becoming a college; as for the farmers about, well--I don't think there is much danger of any of them wanting to go back to be buried "without benefit of clergy." What is it David Elton says? Oh, yes--"I wouldn't go back if they'd make me president." Poor David, the way he did storm and rage the day they put him in the mine with me. True, they were hard days those for both of us.'