"Yes," said Richard. "He actually found a use for it, after all--but not in Washington. He went as far as he could by rail, and then he tramped the rest of the way to Westoria; they say it must have taken him several days, and that his shoes were worn to shreds, and his feet cut and bruised by the walk. When he reached the house, it had been shut up so long that the honeysuckle which climbed about it had grown across the door, and he could not have got in without breaking or pushing it aside. People fancied that at first he thought of going in, but that when he saw the vine it stopped him,--slight barrier as it was. They thought he had intended to go in because he had evidently gone to the door, and before he turned away had broken off a spray of the flowers which was just beginning to bloom; he held it crushed in his hand when they found him, two or three days later. He had carried it back to the edge of the porch, and had sat down--and finished everything--with the only thing he had brought back from Washington--the pistol. How does that strike you as the romance of a railroad?" Bertha clenched her hand, and struck her knee a fierce little blow. "Richard," she said, "if that had happened in my day I should have turned lobbyist, and every thought, and power, and gift I had would have been brought to bear to secure the passage of that bill." Richard laughed,--a pleased but slightly nervous laugh. "Suppose you bring them to bear now," he suggested. "There would not be any reason for my doing it now," she answered; "but I shall certainly be interested." Richard laughed again. "By Jove!" he said, "the poor devils who own it would think there was reason enough!" "Who owns it?" "Several people, who speculated in it because the railroad was talked of again, and on a more substantial footing. It fell to Westor's only living relation, who was an ignorant old woman, and sold it without having any idea of its real value. Her impression was that, if she kept it, it would bring her ill-luck. There is no denying that it looks just now like a magnificent speculation." "And that poor fellow," said Bertha,--"that _poor_ fellow"-- "That poor fellow?" Richard interposed. "Yes--but his little drama is over, you know, and perhaps there are others going on quite as interesting, if we only knew them. It is very like you, Bertha--and it is very adorable," touching her shoulder caressingly with his hand, "to lose sight entirely of the speculation, and care only for the poor fellow. You insist upon having your little drama under all circumstances." "Yes," she admitted. "I confess that I like my little drama, and I have not a doubt that--as I said before--I could not have lived in the midst of that without turning lobbyist--which is certainly not my vocation." "Not your vocation?" said Richard. "You would make the most successful little lobbyist in the world!" Bertha turned upon him an incredulous and rather bewildered smile. "I!" she exclaimed. "I?"