Extended notices of the meeting had been telegraphed to the neighboring cities by local correspondents, and Shelby ran through the newspaper accounts in the cheerless dining room, which he thought to-day by no means comfortless. There was a flattering deference in the manner of the waitresses, and the lessening of their pert familiarity told him, more plainly perhaps than anything else, that he had become a personage. He failed to remind them that the oatmeal was burned, the rolls soggy, and the coffee reminiscent of chicory. He ate all that was set before him, and was still content. The hotel barber-shop seemed a blithe spot indeed, as he sat for his daily shave, and the admiring barber a prince of good fellows. Sweet also were the greetings of the market-place, as, cigar in mouth, he sauntered through Main Street to his law office. All his paths were pleasantness and peace. The first discordant note was struck, oddly enough, by his faithful satellite, William Irons, who, at his employer's entrance, abruptly left off an attempt to coax his red shock into lovelocks, slid his pocket mirror under a heap of papers, and fell to hammering the typewriter with unnatural energy. Shelby accepted the subterfuge, and wished him a hearty good morning. "Did you attend the rally, William?" he inquired, as he slit the envelopes of his morning's mail. "Yep," said William Irons. "Everybody seemed pleased?" "Nope." "No?" Shelby repeated, lifting his eyes. "And who was disgruntled?" "The Widow Weatherwax." "Ah! That's unfortunate," returned Shelby, blandly. "What is the widow's grievance?" "She's put out because you told a story makin' light of drinkin' punch. She belongs to all the temp'rance societies doin' business, you know." "No; I didn't know." "And she says none of her church 'll vote for you after your countenancin' such a cryin' sin." "Her list of cardinal sins is extensive." "Yep," agreed William. "Won't even let me play my fiddle in the house. Says it's a vanity." "I'd forgotten that you had gone to live with her." "Do chores for my keep," explained the clerk. "Have codfish three times a day, Monday morning to Saturday night, and no warm victuals Sundays. Makes me keep my fiddle in the barn and play it behind the woodpile." Shelby laughed, and sought to woo back his mood of charity toward all, but it was futile. The widow's mite of hostile criticism had leavened the whole lump with bitterness. Nevertheless, he bridled his tongue.