My address was drawn up in a solemn committee composed of Father O’Dowd, Mr. Hawthorne, Mabel, my mother, and myself. I need not reproduce it here. It was Catholic and national, and when it went forth to the county it was received with universal enthusiasm. The opposite party stigmatized it as an “audacious document,” a “firebrand.” “Yes,” said the parish priest of Derrymaleena, “it is a firebrand, and one that lights the funeral pyre of the Orange party.” I found Miss Hawthorne rewriting a copy of my address. “I will save you the trouble, Miss Hawthorne,” I said bitterly, and Heaven knows my heart was at a dead ache, “and I will send a copy to Mr. Melton.” She flushed, the hot blood mounting over her little ears. “You do me a cruel injustice, Mr. Ormonde,” she replied. “Read that!” contemptuously flinging me an open letter across the table. “I do not wish to pry into Mr. Melton’s secrets.” “That letter is _not_ from Mr. Melton. I never received one from him in my life, nor do I care to receive one; but since you will not read this letter, you shall hear its contents.” She read as follows in a pained voice: MY DEAR MRS. ORMONDE: As the coming man is so busy, and is probably at the other side of the county, I write to you to ask you to send me a copy of his address as soon as ever you can. We are all alive here, and Victory is within our grasp. Always yours, PETER HEFFERNAN. “Now, Mr. Ormonde, may I ask you if it was generous of you to—” “Forgive me, Miss Hawthorne,” I exclaimed. “I—I do not know what I am doing, what I am saying. I am distracted—wretched.” I was silent. I dared go no further. The vision of Wynwood Melton cried check to the bounding thoughts that came surging from my heart. “The evening of the 20th will find you in better form.” I shook my head. The future was utterly dreary—one blank, sunless waste. “You will win this election, Mr. Ormonde.” I sighed deeply. “A barren victory.” “A barren victory!” she exclaimed with considerable animation. “Do you consider it a barren victory to beat the Carlton Club, the great conservative stronghold of England, whose every ukase is law—to beat the De Ruthven faction, who have held your beautiful county in subjection since the Pale?” “A Dead-Sea apple. In winning this election I win your hatred.” “_My_ hatred?” opening her lovely violet eyes in delicious wonder. “Yes, Miss Hawthorne; if I am elected I shall have beaten the man you love.” She flushed again—a shower of rose-petals. “There is not a more miserable being on the face of this earth than I am this moment, Miss Hawthorne. Were I not pledged in honor to this election, I would stand aside and let Mr. Melton win _this_ stake, as he has won the higher stake—your heart.” She was about to interrupt me, her lips tremulous, her hands in strong action.