able, and scattered on the mantel and about its walls were the
photographs of his personal friends and a few costly prints. This room he
used as his executive office, and no person was allowed to enter it
without first stating his business or presenting a petition to the tawny
brown woman with restless eyes who sat in state in the front parlour and
received his visitors. The books in their cases gave evidence of little
use for many years, although their character indicated the tastes of a man
of culture. His Pliny, Caesar, Cicero, Tacitus, Sophocles, and Homer had
evidently been read by a man who knew their beauties and loved them for
their own sake.

This house was now the Mecca of the party in power and the storm-centre of
the forces destined to shape the Nation's life. Senators, representatives,
politicians of low and high degree, artists, correspondents, foreign
ministers, and cabinet officers hurried to acknowledge their fealty to the
uncrowned king, and hail the strange brown woman who held the keys of his
house as the first lady of the land.

When Charles Sumner called, a curious thing happened. By a code agreed on
between them, Lydia Brown touched an electric signal which informed the
old Commoner of his appearance. Stoneman hobbled to the folding-doors and
watched through the slight opening the manner in which the icy senator
greeted the negress whom he was compelled to meet thus as his social
equal, though she was always particular to pose as the superior of all who
bowed the knee to the old man whose house she kept.

Sumner at this time was supposed to be the most powerful man in Congress.
It was a harmless fiction which pleased him, and at which Stoneman loved
to laugh.

The senator from Massachusetts had just made a speech in Boston expounding
the "Equality of Man," yet he could not endure personal contact with a
negro. He would go secretly miles out of the way to avoid it.

Stoneman watched him slowly and daintily approach this negress and touch
her jewelled hand gingerly with the tips of his classic fingers as if she
were a toad. Convulsed, he scrambled back to his desk and hugged himself
while he listened to the flow of Lydia's condescending patronage in the
next room.

"This world's too good a thing to lose!" he chuckled. "I think I'll live
always."

When Sumner left, the hour for dinner had arrived, and by special
invitation two men dined with him.

On his right sat an army officer who had bee