carious honor had
been done the house, a most insinuating form of hero-worship which
attained its climax in the homage of the true-penny who set forth his
morning bitters on the bar.

Extended notices of the meeting had been telegraphed to the neighboring
cities by local correspondents, and Shelby ran through the newspaper
accounts in the cheerless dining room, which he thought to-day by no
means comfortless. There was a flattering deference in the manner of
the waitresses, and the lessening of their pert familiarity told him,
more plainly perhaps than anything else, that he had become a
personage. He failed to remind them that the oatmeal was burned, the
rolls soggy, and the coffee reminiscent of chicory. He ate all that
was set before him, and was still content. The hotel barber-shop
seemed a blithe spot indeed, as he sat for his daily shave, and the
admiring barber a prince of good fellows. Sweet also were the
greetings of the market-place, as, cigar in mouth, he sauntered through
Main Street to his law office. All his paths were pleasantness and
peace.

The first discordant note was struck, oddly enough, by his faithful
satellite, William Irons, who, at his employer's entrance, abruptly
left off an attempt to coax his red shock into lovelocks, slid his
pocket mirror under a heap of papers, and fell to hammering the
typewriter with unnatural energy. Shelby accepted the subterfuge, and
wished him a hearty good morning.

"Did you attend the rally, William?" he inquired, as he slit the
envelopes of his morning's mail.

"Yep," said William Irons.

"Everybody seemed pleased?"

"Nope."

"No?" Shelby repeated, lifting his eyes. "And who was disgruntled?"

"The Widow Weatherwax."

"Ah! That's unfortunate," returned Shelby, blandly. "What is the
widow's grievance?"

"She's put out because you told a story makin' light of drinkin' punch.
She belongs to all the temp'rance societies doin' business, you know."

"No; I didn't know."

"And she says none of her church 'll vote for you after your
countenancin' such a cryin' sin."

"Her list of cardinal sins is extensive."

"Yep," agreed William. "Won't even let me play my fiddle in the house.
Says it's a vanity."

"I'd forgotten that you had gone to live with her."

"Do chores for my keep," explained the clerk. "Have codfish three
times a day, Monday morning to Saturday night, and no warm victuals
Sundays. Makes me keep my fiddle in the barn and pl