victuals."

Then he turned back to the easy flow of anecdote, chiefly about his
political campaign, and Harley saw that the interest of the old man was
centred upon him. The woman, without a word, brought in hot biscuits
from the kitchen, but she did not lose her frightened look, glancing
from one to another of the three with furtive, lowered eyes. But Jimmy
Grayson, the golden-mouthed, talked gracefully, and the note of his
discourse that morning was the sweetness and kindness of life; he saw
only the sunny side of things; people were good and true, and peace was
better than strife. His smiling, benevolent face and the mellow flow of
his words enforced the lesson.

The old man's face softened a little, and even Harley, though a prey to
anxieties, felt the influence of Jimmy Grayson's spell. The little
dining-room where they sat was at the rear of the house. Harley saw the
golden sunshine of a perfect October day, and the wind that sang across
the plain had the soft strain of a girl's voice. He felt that it was
good to live that morning, and his spirits rose as he saw the old man
fall further and further under the spell of Jimmy Grayson's eloquence.

But Simpson raised himself presently and glanced at the door.

"That driver of yourn is tarnal slow," he repeated. "Seems to me he'll
never finish feedin' an' curryin' them horses!"

"He is slow, extremely slow," laughed Jimmy Grayson. "If he were not so
we should not have got lost last night, and we should not be here now,
Mr. Simpson, trespassing on your hospitality. Perhaps the man does not
want any breakfast; it's not the first time since he's been with us that
he's gone without it."

Then he launched again into the stream of a very pretty story that he
had been telling, and the wavering attention of the old man returned.
Harley gave all assistance. Despite his anxiety and his listening for
sounds without, he kept his eyes fixed upon Jimmy Grayson's face as if
he would not miss a word.

The breakfast went on to an unusual length. The candidate and Harley
called again and again for hot biscuits and more coffee, and always the
old woman served them silently, almost furtively.

The story was finished, and just as it came to its end Simpson said,
with a grim inflection:

"It 'pears to me, Mr. Grayson, all you said about that driver of yourn
is true. He hasn't come from the stable yet."

There was the sound of a step in the hall, and the candidate said,
quickly: