you see the pile of baggage. You'd think these minxes were prepared for
a tour of the world. Each one of 'em brought a carload of clothes."

But they couldn't phase Kenneth in that way. His sensitive face had not
beamed with so much animation for months.

The guests were helped into the tall drag and merrily they drove the
five miles to Elmhurst, not a word of politics being spoken on the way.

The girls had not been to the house since Aunt Jane's death, two years
ago, and after a hasty luncheon they began an inspection of every room,
as well as the garden, grounds and stables. The horses, cows, pig and
chickens were alike inspected, the roses and dahlias visited and
admired, and after all this they returned to their rooms with old
Martha, the housekeeper, and proceeded to unpack their trunks and get
settled. Kenneth had been their guide and companion in these various
explorations, but when the girls went to their rooms he wandered into
the library where Uncle John and Mr. Watson had been having a quiet talk
over their pipes of tobacco. They welcomed the young man, but adroitly
turned the topic of conversation, and again the subject of was rejoined.

It was a merry dinner party that graced the table during dinner that
evening, and the boy forgot his troubles and was as jolly and sociable
as he had ever been in his life.

But when they were all assembled in the long living room where they
grouped themselves around the fireplace, a sudden change took place in
the demeanor of the young ladies. Patsy, the delegated leader, looked
gravely at the boy and asked:

"How goes the campaign, Ken?"

"Wh--what campaign?" he stammered, to gain time.

"Why, this election business. Tell us about it," said Patsy.

"Some other time, girls," answered the boy, red and distressed. "It--it
wouldn't interest you a bit."

"Why not?" asked Louise, softly.

"Because it doesn't interest me," he replied.

"Are you so sure of election?" inquired Beth.

"I'm sure of defeat, if you must know," he declared, scowling at the
recollection of his predicament.

"You haven't been cowardly enough to give up?" asked Patricia, boldly.

"What do you mean by that, Patsy Doyle?" he asked, the scowl deepening.

"Just what I say, Ken. A brave man doesn't know when he's beaten, much
less beforehand."

He looked at her fixedly.

"I'm not brave, my dear," he replied, more gently than they had
expected. "The people here don't understand me, nor I t