Summer was come and the convention was less than two weeks away when Mr. Phillips’ first political lieutenant came back from a trip to New York with the very definite news for his chief that even if at that late day he would promise to be more considerate of the business interests of the country the nomination might yet be his. Mr. Phillips promptly sent his answer to the railroad president who had presumed to speak for Business that he "would see the _business interests_ damned before he would make any such promise." ... Three days before the convention met, Mr. Phillips received a letter written in pencil in a weak and uncertain handwriting. "We have named the boy Hayne Phillips. When are you coming to see us? Daddy dear, it tires me so to write. I love you. HELEN." *CHAPTER XXXVII* The Mr. Phillips who on July the 3d, 191-, alighted from the car at the little station that served the Stag Inlet folks was a very different figure of a man from the vigorous person who on a day in the preceding October had taken the train there to go back to his work in Washington. There was now no spring in his step, no quickness in his movement. He was plainly fatigued and preoccupied, and he was alone. There was no member of his family with him, nor any of them, except Hayward, to meet him at the station. A single secretary followed him at some little distance as he walked down the platform mechanically raising his hat and smiling at the half score of persons who had stopped to see him take his carriage. He climbed up beside Hayward into the single-seated affair the negro was driving, nodded to the secretary to follow him in the formal and stately victoria that was waiting, and with a parting lift of his hat left the small crowd staring at him as he drove away. The onlookers commented, as onlookers will, upon everything that struck their eyes in the simple proceeding. They wondered why he appeared so listless and careworn. They wondered why he crowded into the narrow buggy instead of taking the roomy carriage. They wondered why none of his daughters nor his wife accompanied him—why he looked just a little bit carelessly dressed—and what had become of his swinging, buoyant stride—and whether he was altogether in good health and—well, they left no question unasked, no surmise unturned. Mr. Phillips had very little to say to Hayward during the drive to Hill-Top. He really desired to say nothing, but it was impossible to ignore all the demands of gentlemanly politeness and interest in his son-in-law’s family. "How is Helen?" he asked after a long while. "Not so very well yet, sir," answered Hayward. "She doesn’t seem to regain her strength very rapidly." A very much longer silence. "And the baby?" "The finest boy in the world, sir—you ought to see him—strong and healthy, with lungs like a steam piano." Mr. Phillips made no comment. Hayward looked round at him.