“That settles the lamp question, anyhow,” he whispered to himself as he went up-stairs, and then he went into Mrs. Perkins’s room.

“Well, Bess,” he said, “it’s all over, and I’ve made up my mind as to where the lamps are to go.”

“Good!” said the little woman.  “On the gate-posts?”

“No, dear.  In the parlor—­the cloisonne lamps from Tiffany’s.”

“Why, I thought you said we couldn’t—­”

“Well, we can.  Our lamps can go in there whether the public likes it or not.  We are emancipated.”

“But I don’t understand,” began Mrs. Perkins.

“Oh, it’s simple,” said Thaddeus, with a sigh of mingled relief and chagrin.  “It’s simple enough.  The other lamps are to be put—­er—­on Captain Haskins’s place.”

THE BALANCE OF POWER

It was a pleasant night in the spring of 189-.

The residents of Dumfries Corners were enjoying an early spring, and suffering from the demoralizing influences of a municipal election.  Incidentally Mr. Thaddeus Perkins, candidate, was beginning to feel very much like Moses when he saw the promised land afar.  The promised land was now in plain sight; but whether or not the name of Perkins should be inscribed in one of its high places depended upon the voters who on the morrow were to let their ballots express their choice as to who should preside over the interests of the city and hold in check the fiery, untamed aldermen of Dumfries Corners.

The candidate was tired, very tired, and was trying to gain a few hours’ rest before plunging again and for the last time into the whirlpool of vote-getting; and as he sat enjoying a few moments of blissful ease behind the close-drawn portieres of his library there came the much-dreaded sound of heavy feet upon the porch without, and the door-bell rang.

“Norah!” cried the candidate, in an agonized stage-whisper, as the maid approached in answer to the summons, “tell them I’m out, unless it’s some one of my personal friends.”

“Yis, sorr,” was the answer.  “Oi will.”

And the door was opened.

“Is Misther Perkins in?” came a deep, unmistakably “voting” voice from without.

“Oi dun’no’.  Are yees a personal friend of Misther Perkins?” was the response, and the heart of the listening Perkins sought his boots.

“Oi am not, but—­” said the deep voice.

“Thin he isn’t in,” said Norah, positively.

“When ’ll he be back?” asked the visitor, huskily.

“Ye say ye niver met him?” demanded Norah.

“Oi told ye oi hadn’t,” said the visitor, a trifle irritably.  “But—­”

“Thin he’ll niver be back,” put in the glorious Norah, and she shut the door with considerable force and retired.

For a moment the candidate was overcome; first he paled, but then catching Mrs. Perkins’s eye and noting a twinkle of amusement therein, he yielded to his emotions and roared with laughter.  What if Norah’s manner was unconventional?  Had she not carried out instructions?