similar fashion.

After these formidable preliminaries, it was time for Judge Henderson to
give the real address of the evening--this latter now delivered with
frequent consultations of the large watch which he placed beside him on
the table. So presently he came to such portion of his speech as
requires the orator to say, "But, my friends, the hour grows late."
Whereafter presently, figuratively, he dismissed the audience with his
blessing, well satisfied from the applause that his campaign was doing
well. He had but casually and incidentally allowed it to be known that
his own annual check to the city library was for a thousand dollars--no
more than would cover the librarian's salary.

By this time, it was a half-hour past midnight, and none present might
say that he had not had full worth of all the moneys expended for this
entertainment. It had been a great evening for the candidate. Moreover,
most of the old ladies present had enjoyed themselves in social
conversation regarding the absorbing news of the day. As for the half
dozen young village beauties present, there was not one who did not know
precisely where Don Lane sat--not even Sally Lester, who irritated
Jerome Westbrook beyond measure when he saw her pretending to look at
the clock at the back of the hall to see what time it was. Really, as
Jerome Westbrook knew very well, she was only trying to see Don Lane,
the newest young man in town--wholly impossible socially, but one who
had made sudden history of interest in feminine eyes.

Moody and intent upon his own thoughts, Don Lane himself by no means
realized the importance of the occasion so far as he himself and his
mother were concerned. He did not know that he was on trial here, that
they two were on inspection. His ears were deaf to the impassioned words
of all and several of the orators of the evening. Before his eyes
appeared only one face. It was that of a young girl with a face
clean-cut and high-browed, with sweet and kindly eyes--the girl he was
to meet tomorrow, to whom he was to say good-by--Anne Oglesby. "Anne!
Anne!" his heart was exclaiming all the time. For now he knew that he in
turn must bruise yet another human heart, because of what had been, and
in his brain was room now for no other thought, no other scene, no other
face. There swept down upon him, if he thought of it at all now and
then, only a feeling of the insufficiency, the narrowness, the
unworthiness, the tawdriness, of all