“Yet that is what I did on a bill the other day,” mused Fox, “because the party opposed it.” “Was it a good bill?” “Excellent.” “And you voted against it when you believed in it?” indignantly. “I’m the guilty creature,” he replied, laughter in his eyes but his face sober. Rose bit her lip. “You see it’s a bad moment to make a split in the party; next year is the Presidential campaign,” he continued provokingly. She could not restrain her indignation. “Aren’t you ashamed to go against your own conscience for that?” she cried; “it isn’t worthy of you.” “Then you think better things of me?” he argued softly, “you see a chance for my redemption?” She looked up and met his glance fully but with a sudden feeling of confusion. “It is because you are meant for so much greater things that I speak,” she said finally; “I think you will be a greater man than you are now at last.” His manner softened at once, with that subtle gentleness which no man knew better how to use. “Your belief should make me so!” he said gravely; “a man might accomplish much to justify your belief in him!” She averted her face, her lip trembling. Around her the woodland seemed suddenly transfigured, the tumult of the stream, breaking here in little cataracts, scarcely leaped more wildly than her pulses; before them the long road narrowed in a beautiful perspective where trailing branches locked their spectral arms and the evergreen honeysuckle hung on gray rocks. Fox leaned forward in his saddle, trying to meet her eyes, but seeing only the soft curve of her cheek and throat. “Will you try to believe in me?” he asked, with that new sweetness of tone which took the sting out of his jests. But she had touched her horse lightly and he shot ahead, trotting down the long road, his rider swaying and bending slightly to avoid an occasional sweeping bough. Fox followed quickly, and overtaking her, the two horses galloped together while their riders relapsed for a while into a significant silence. “Did you know that my portrait is nearly finished?” Rose said at last; “I think that Robert has painted it out and in again just five times.” “It isn’t in the least like you,” retorted Fox sharply, “he has made a failure.” “Oh, no, every one likes it!” protested Rose. “Not at all,” said Fox; more calmly; “I don’t--neither does Allestree.” “He has too high a standard for his work,” she replied laughing, “but I hoped you liked it.” “No picture of you could ever please me,” he retorted significantly; “when I shut my eyes I can still see your face. Allestree’s wits have been wool-gathering; he has made an image, nothing more--he--” Rose interrupted laughing. “Please don’t tell father; he likes it, and Mrs. Vermilion was so pleased that she and Mr. Vermilion have ordered life-sized portraits of the entire family, _en masse_ and singly; Robert’s fortune is made.” “The Vermilions are parvenus,” said Fox, with a shrug; “poor Bob!”