Though Rankin had told him not to worry, Garwood was depressed and troubled, and longed for sympathy. In the evening, when he found time to go to Emily, Pusey was uppermost in his mind. "You're tired, of course," said Emily, "and how hoarse." "It's the speaking, I reckon," said Garwood. "I campaigned all week with old General Stager; we spoke outdoors to acres of people. How those old-timers stand it I don't know. They can blow like steam whistles day and night. When I left the old gentleman last night at Mt. Pulaski, he was as fresh as a daisy--said he liked a little taste of the stump now and then--but that, of course, it wasn't anything to what it used to be." Emily laughed a little. "Won't you have some meetings indoors?" "Oh, after while--but we have to get the crowds where we can find them, and the farmers are all at the county fairs nowadays. I'll be glad when it's over. The strain is pulling me down." "Aren't you well?" she asked with a woman's constant concern. "Oh, yes, well enough; of course I have a cold all the time, a candidate has to have that, and a sore throat, but you have to smile, and look pleasant, and shake hands, and be careful what you say. I'd give anything to be a free man once more, to be able to talk without weighing every word, without having to watch it as if I were drawing an indictment. I'd give anything to indulge one good fit of anger." "Can't you--just get mad at me?" Garwood laughed fondly. "Well," he went on, "it's good to come here and relax and speak my mind. I did get mad to-day though, and threaten to throw a man out of my office window." His thought would revert to that subject. "Who?" she asked, in alarm. "Oh, that little Free Pusey." "What has he done?" "He wanted me to give him money for his support." "Well, I don't blame you. I can understand your righteous indignation, Jerome." Garwood felt the blood tinge his checks. "I wish you wouldn't talk that way, Emily." "W'y, why?" "Because you don't know how sordid politics are--or is--which is it? I'd probably have given it to him, only I didn't have it; the righteously indignant was the only attitude left." "I don't like to hear you talk like that, Jerome. I don't like to see you in that cynical mood. It wasn't an attitude, it was your real nature speaking." "Well, a man must keep his real nature in subjection in politics." "Please don't, Jerome; you mustn't keep your real nature in subjection in politics. We need just such men as you in our public life." They were silent then. "Jerome," the girl said later, "do you really need money so badly?" "Well, it costs, you know." "Why don't you speak to father--I know he'd be glad to help you. He is very anxious to see you succeed, you know--or if you think that Mr. Pusey can harm you, why can't you let father speak to him? Father once did him some favor--don't you remember those sickening, fulsome articles he wrote?"