“It was the ol' mare o' the river,” said Pearl. “I had her fixed so I could cut her loose. She just h'isted up her hind legs an' threw 'em into every corner o' the shop. An' they hit hard. Ye see, I was expectin' 'em. Had a spout rigged at the bottom o' the pen-stock with a double j'int in the neck of it. The ol' mare jumped through it an' raised”--he checked himself, and added--“everything in reach.” My nose had been badly cut and broken, and I was a month in the Albany hospital undergoing repairs, and came out with this battered visage. I wept when I saw myself in the mirror. It was not so very bad, you see, after all, but that day I thought it bad enough to make a dog bark at me. I gave up all thought of marriage, but--yes, oh yes, dear child, I loved her more than ever. I remember the day that Pearl came down to cheer me up. He put his hand on my head and whispered: “Don't worry about that, boy. It's your medal of honor, and you can't hide it under your vest, either.” We learned that the men had worse injuries, and before a day had passed their names were known, and within a week they were promoted to the grease department. They had planned to tar and feather my friend and carry him out of the village on a fence-rail, and Pearl and his “old mare” had exposed and kicked them out of favor in their own ranks. The working-men turned to McCarthy, and always stood by him after that. CHAPTER III.--THE GENTLEMAN DISCOVERS A NEW KIND OF POWER [Illustration: 9267] REMAINED at Rushwater to run the shop while McCarthy was beginning his legislative career. I was going about a good deal looking after branches in Chicago and New York. The hand-made gentleman was at home and doing something for Sal in the intervals of adjournment, but I saw little of him. Two or three times in my absence he called to see my mother and sister. When I had returned from a long journey, one evening Sarah said to me: “I have seen that girl.” “What girl?” “Mr. McCarthy's girl--the one you say he loves.” “Has she been here?” “Yes; and I don't like her.” “Why?” “I don't believe she cares for him, and she ought to be ashamed of herself.” My sister turned away, her cheeks red with indignation. “No woman has any right to marry a man that she does not love,” she went on. “Do you really think he cares for her?” “So he told me.” “Well, I do hope she makes him a good wife. They are to be married in June.” “In June!” “Yes; he spoke of it one evening to mother and me, and looked as if he were talking about his funeral.” “It may be something has come between them,” I said; “but he will keep his word if he dies for it, unless--well, no sentimental reason would turn him.” “What a wonderful man he is!” said Sarah; and then she brought my slippers to me, and came and sat on the arm of my chair and tenderly stroked my weary head. “And what a wonderful sister you are, and how beautiful you have grown! Some day you will be getting married.”