ned
on her companion a pale face and eyes that were swimming in tears.

"Yes, dear," said the Southerner, whose lips were smiling, but whose own
eyes were wet.

"Oh--_Nannie!_" cried Constance Ridgely. And the faces of the two women
were strangely like the faces of the two little girls who had found each
other years and years ago.

THE OLD PARTISAN

A STORY OF THE REPUBLICAN CONVENTION OF 1896

I sat so far back in the gallery that my opinion of my delegate friend
dwindled with every session. Nevertheless my unimportant seat had its
advantages. I could see the vast assembly and watch the throbbing of the
Republican pulse if I could not hear its heart-beats. Therefore,
perhaps, I studied my neighbors more than I might study them under
different circumstances. The great wooden hall had its transient and
unsubstantial character stamped on every bare wooden joist and
unclinched nail. It was gaudy with flags and bunting and cheap
portraits. There were tin bannerettes crookedly marshaled on the floor,
to indicate the homes of the different states. A few delegates,
doubtless new to the business and over-zealous, were already on the
floor, but none of the principals were visible. They were perspiring and
arguing in those committee rooms, those hotel lobbies and crowded hotel
rooms where the real business of the convention was already done and
neatly prepared for presentation to the nation. I had nothing to keep me
from studying my neighbors. In front of me sat two people who had
occupied the same seats at every session that I was present, a young
girl and an old man. The girl wore the omnipresent shirt waist (of
pretty blue and white tints, with snowy cuffs and collar), and her green
straw hat was decked with blue cornflowers, from which I inferred that
she had an eye on the fashions. Her black hair was thick and glossy
under the green straw. I thought that she had a graceful neck. It was
very white. Whiter than her face, which kept a touch of sunburn, as if
she were often out in the open air. Somehow I concluded that she was a
shop-girl and rode a wheel. If I were wrong it is not likely that I
shall ever know.

The old man I fancied, was not so old as he looked; his delicate,
haggard profile may have owed its sunken lines and the dim eye to
sickness rather than to years. He wore the heavy black broadcloth of the
rural politician, and his coat sagged over his narrow chest as if he had
left his waistcoat at home.