"Vote for the man you trust, and not for the man who inflames your passions. Your vote is a sacred thing; when you sell it you dishonor yourself. Respect yourself, and you'll respect the country that has made a man of you." The response was immediate, the applause tumultuous. After his speech they crowded about him. They knew him for their friend. But they knew him for more than that. He asked nothing of their manhood but the best. He preached honesty and practiced it. Yet as he climbed into the car Anne had little to say to him. Winifred, leaning forward, was emphatic in her praise: "You have no right to bury yourself, Max." "My dear girl, I'm not dead yet." He was a bit impatient. He had hoped for a word from Anne. But she sat silent, pulling the puppy's ears. "He's asleep," she said finally as she caught the inquiry in her lover's eyes. "He's tired out, poor darling." She seemed indifferent, but she was not. She had been much stirred. She had a strange feeling that something had happened to her while she had listened to Maxwell's speech. Some string had broken and her romance was out of tune. She lay awake for a long time that night, thinking it over. She grew hot with the thought of the limitations of her previous conception of her lover. She had considered him a sort of background for the pleasant things he could do for her. She had fitted him to the measure of the boxes of candy that he had brought her, the luncheons in the House restaurant, the bountiful hospitality of the farm. How lightly she had looked down on him as he had stood below her on the stairs with her candle in his hand. How casually she had accepted his kiss. She had a sudden feeling that she must not let him kiss her again! Early in the morning she went into Amy's room. "Amy," she said, "how soon do you think we can go to Aunt Elizabeth's?" "Aunt Elizabeth's? Why, Anne?" "I want to leave here." "To leave here?" Amy sat up. Even in the bright light of the morning her face looked young. Good food and fresh air had done much for her. It had been quite heavenly, too, to let care slip away, to have no thought of what she should eat or what she should drink or what she should wear. "To leave here? I thought you loved it, Anne." "I've got to get away. I'm not going to marry Maxwell, Amy." "Anne! What made you change your mind?" "I can't tell you. Please don't ask me. But I wish you would write to Aunt Elizabeth." "I had a letter from her yesterday. She says we can come at any time. But--have you told Max?" "Not yet." "Has he done anything?" "No. It's just--that I can't marry him. Don't ask me, Amy." She broke down in a storm of tears. Amy, soothing her, wondered if after all Anne cared for Murray Flint. It was, she felt, the only solution possible. Surely a girl would not throw away a chance to marry a man like Maxwell Sears for nothing.