About then Bonnie Bell she comes down the front stairs. She was all dressed up in silk, in a low-necked dress and a good many jewels on. You wouldn't hardly of thought it was her pa standing in his shirt sleeves in the room. "Gentlemen," says Old Man Wright, "this is my daughter." What them men did was not to compare them two at all. They just stood in line and every one of 'em raised his glass like she was a real queen; and they give her three cheers. Bonnie Bell she drops them a curtsy. You see, them folks saw that, while we had the price and had the class, and could play some games, we was just folks. They felt all the time that they was just folks too. When you can play that game square and on the level, like Old Man Wright done, they can't beat you in politics. Them people went away at last--even our little Dutch band, though they give up hard. The Wisner house was dark, while ours was all lit up--everything in it, including me, Curly. The papers said that the new alderman kept open house until a late hour. There was some truth in that--the door was open all night long. At breakfast Old Man Wright was hungry, though he hadn't been to bed. He set, with his hands in his pockets, and looked out at Wisner's brick wall; and says he to me: "This here is going to be a changed ward. I ain't in no man's vest pocket. I ain't done yet. This is just the beginning. But where's the kid, Curly?" I went and found her. William was still hid somewhere--the night's doings had grieved him plenty. She come in and set down by her pa. "Well, sis," says he, "you see your dad is getting some of them Better Things we come to Chicago after." "Dad," says she, pushing back a little way from him and looking into his face, "tell me something." "What is it, Honey?" "The truth now--the truth." "Yes, Honey." "Did you sell out the Circle Arrow and come to town on account of me?" He didn't speak at first. "Yes, I did, Honey," says he at last. "I said I'd tell you the truth. That was why we sold the old ranch--so as you could come here. I wanted you to go as high as any American woman could go. We educated you for that--we brought you up for it, Curly and me." "We didn't win, did we, dad?" says she, slow like. "How is it done, dad?" "Gawd knows," he says. "Tell me, sis, if we pulled out of here and went to some other town, would you be better? How about Kansas City?" "No," says she. "Our feet ain't headed that way. I won't quit, dad." "You'll break your heart first, and your dad's?" "Yes, if necessary." "All to break into them sepulchers?" "No," says she; "there's a lot of things worth while more than that. These brick-and-stone houses are the trenches. They may be hard to take. But back of them lies the country, and it's the country that's worth while. You found it--over on the other side of the ward. For me--don't mind if I haven't found it just yet." "Ain't you happy, sis?" says he. "No," says she, quiet like; "I'm not." He pats her on the back.