t politics and business, yes, sir, and the
law, have come to in these days. If a man wants to succeed, he must turn
into a rascal."

I was not shocked, but I was silent, uncomfortable, wishing that it were
time to take the train back to the city. Cousin Robert's face was
more worn than I had thought, and I contrasted him inevitably with
the forceful person who used to stand, in his worn alpaca coat, on the
pavement in front of his store, greeting with clear-eyed content his
fellow merchants of the city. Willie Breck, too, was silent, and Walter
Kinley took off his glasses and wiped them. In the meanwhile Helen had
left the group in which my mother sat, and, approaching us, laid her
hands on her father's shoulders.

"Now, dad," she said, in affectionate remonstrance, "you're excited
about politics again, and you know it isn't good for you. And besides,
they're not worth it."

"You're right, Helen," he replied. Under the pressure of her hands he
made a strong effort to control himself, and turned to address my mother
across the room.

"I'm getting to be a crotchety old man," he said. "It's a good thing I
have a daughter to remind me of it."

"It is a good thing, Robert," said my mother.

During the rest of our visit he seemed to have recovered something of
his former spirits and poise, taking refuge in the past. They talked
of their own youth, of families whose houses had been landmarks on the
Second Bank.

"I'm worried about your Cousin Robert, Hugh," my mother confided to me,
when we were at length seated in the train. "I've heard rumours that
things are not so well at the store as they might be." We looked out
at the winter landscape, so different from that one which had thrilled
every fibre of my being in the days when the railroad on which we
travelled had been a winding narrow gauge. The orchards--those that
remained--were bare; stubble pricked the frozen ground where tassels
had once waved in the hot, summer wind. We flew by row after row of
ginger-bread, suburban houses built on "villa plots," and I read in
large letters on a hideous sign-board, "Woodbine Park."

"Hugh, have you ever heard anything against--Mr. Watling?"

"No, mother," I said. "So far as I knew, he is very much looked up to by
lawyers and business men. He is counsel, I believe, for Mr. Blackwood's
street car line on Boyne Street. And I told you, I believe, that I met
him once at Mr. Kyme's."

"Poor Robert!" she sighed. "I suppose busi