not forget that he is going to watch
over Mr. Grayson."

Churchill did not join the general group until shortly before the
departure for the evening speech, and then he approached with an
undeniable air of hostility and defence, expecting to be attacked and
having in readiness the weapons with which he had assured himself that
he could repel them. Miss Morgan, it is true, had received him well, but
she, so he had begun to believe, was a girl of perception and
discrimination, and the fine taste shown by her would not be exhibited
by others. The candidate, surprising him much, received him cordially,
though not effusively, and he was made welcome in similar manner by the
others. There was no allusion whatever to his despatch, but he found
himself included in the general gossip, just as if he were one of a
group of good comrades.

Yet Churchill was not wholly pleased. His great stroke seemed to be
ignored by all except Miss Morgan, when they ought to be stirred deeply
by it, and he felt a sense of diminished importance. There should be
confusion among them, or at least trepidation. He closely studied the
faces of Mr. Grayson and the others to see if they were merely masking
their fire, but no attack came either then or later.

Thus two or three days passed, and the campaign deepened and popular
interest increased. Not since the eve of the Civil War had there been
such complexity and intensity of interests, and never before had the
personal factor been so strong. Out of the vast turmoil quickly emerged
James Grayson as the most picturesque figure that ever appeared upon the
stage of national politics in America. His powerful oratory, his daring,
and his magnetic personality drew the eyes of all, and Harley saw that
wherever he might be there the fight would be thickest. The
correspondent's intuition had been right; he had come from a war on the
other side of the world to enter another and greater campaign, one in
which mind counted for more.

The candidate, in his rising greatness, was even a hero to his own
family; and from none did he draw greater admiration than from his
niece, Sylvia Morgan. A fierce champion of the West, she always bitterly
resented the unconscious patronage of the East, which was really the
natural patronage of age rather than of convinced superiority; and her
uncle's triumph filled her with delight, because, to her mind, it was
the triumph of the West that she loved so well. Inspired with this