“It costs a little to run a political campaign,” acknowledged Beth.

“They say money’s bein’ poured out liken water—­to git votes,” he persisted.

“Well, Mr. Rogers?”

“Well, thet’s how it started, ye see.  We’re so agonizin’ poor, Nell thought we orter git some o’ the money while it’s goin’.”

The girl was much amused.  Such frankness was both unusual and refreshing.

“Have you a vote to sell?” she asked.

He did not answer at once, but sat slowly twirling his hat.

“That’s jet’ what Nell thought ye’d ask,” he said, finally, “an’ she knew if ye did it was all up with our plan.  Guess I’ll be goin’, miss.”

He rose slowly from his seat, but the girl did not intend to lose any of the fun this queer individual might yet furnish.

“Sit down, Mr. Rogers,” she said, “and tell me why you can’t answer my questions?”

“I guess I’ll hev to speak out an’ tell all,” said he, his voice trembling a little, “although I thought fer a minnit I could see my way without.  I can’t sell my vote, miss, ‘cause I’ve been plannin’ t’vote fer Mr. Forbes anyhow.  But we wanted some uv th’ money that’s being wasted, an’ we wanted it mighty bad.”

“Why?”

“Thet’s the hard part uv it, miss; but I’m goin’ to tell you.  Did ye ever hear o’ Lucy?”

“No, Mr. Rogers.”

“Lucy’s our girl—­the on’y chick er child we ever had.  She’s a pretty girl, is Lucy; a good deal liken her mother; wi’ the same high spirits my Nell had afore she broke down.  Mostly Nell cries, nowadays.”

“Yes.  Go on.”

“Lucy had a schoolin’, an’ we worked hard to give it her, fer my land ain’t much account, nohow.  An’ when she grew up she had more boys comin’ to see her than any gal this side o’ Fairview, an’ one o’ ’em caught Lucy’s fancy.  But she was too young to marry, an’ she wanted to be earnin’ money; so she got a job workin’ fer Doc Squiers, over to Elmwood.  He’s the dentist there, an’ Lucy helped with the housework an’ kept the office slicked up, an’ earned ev’ry penny she got.”

He stopped here, and looked vacantly around.

Beth tried to help the old man.

“And then?” she asked, softly.

“Then come the trouble, miss.  One day ol’ Mis’ Squiers, the Doc’s mother, missed a di’mon’ ring.  She laid it on the mantel an’ it was gone, an’ she said as Lucy took it.  Lucy didn’t take it, an’ after they’d tried to make my gal confess as she was a thief they give ’er three days to hand up the ring or the money it was worth, or else they’d hev her arrested and sent t’ jail.  Lucy didn’t take it, ye know.  She jes’ couldn’t do sech a thing, natcherly.”

“I know,” said Beth, sympathetically.

“So she comes home, heartbroken, an’ told us about it, an’ we didn’t hev th’ money nuther.  It were sixty dollars they wanted, or th’ ring; an’ we didn’t hev neither of ’em.”