"And hasn't the public, as you call it, taken possession of the inside of your house?" demanded the mother-in-law. "I found seven gentlemen sitting in the white and gold parlor only last night, and they hadn't wiped their feet either." "You don't understand," faltered the standard-bearer. "That business isn't permanent. To-morrow I'll tell them to go round to the back door and ask the cook." "Humph!" said the mother-in-law. "I'm surprised at you. For a few paltry votes you--" Just here the front door bell rang, and the business of the day beginning stopped the conversation, which bade fair to become unpleasant. * * * * * Night came. The votes were being counted, and at six o'clock Perkins was informed that everything was going his way. "Get your place ready for a brass band and a serenade," his manager telephoned. "I sha'n't!" ejaculated the candidate to himself, his old--time independence asserting itself now that the polls were closed--and he was right. He didn't have to. The band did not play in his front yard, for at eight o'clock the tide that had set in strong for Perkins turned. At ten, according to votes that had been counted, things were about even, and the ladies retired. At twelve Perkins turned out the gas. "That settles the lamp question, anyhow," he whispered to himself as he went up-stairs, and then he went into Mrs. Perkins's room. "Well, Bess," he said, "it's all over, and I've made up my mind as to where the lamps are to go." "Good!" said the little woman. "On the gate-posts?" "No, dear. In the parlor--the cloisonné lamps from Tiffany's." "Why, I thought you said we couldn't--" "Well, we can. Our lamps can go in there whether the public likes it or not. We are emancipated." "But I don't understand," began Mrs. Perkins. "Oh, it's simple," said Thaddeus, with a sigh of mingled relief and chagrin. "It's simple enough. The other lamps are to be put--er--on Captain Haskins's place." THE BALANCE OF POWER It was a pleasant night in the spring of 189-. The residents of Dumfries Corners were enjoying an early spring, and suffering from the demoralizing influences of a municipal election. Incidentally Mr. Thaddeus Perkins, candidate, was beginning to feel very much like Moses when he saw the promised land afar. The promised land was now in plain sight; but whether or not the name of Perkins should be inscribed in one of its high places depended upon the voters who on the morrow were to let their ballots express their choice as to who should preside over the interests of the city and hold in check the fiery, untamed aldermen of Dumfries Corners.