“Is it?” The wan little flicker of a smile that she mustered brought tears to his eyes.  “Maybe it’s because I’ll be sixteen to-morrow.  Good-night, Big Boy!” This new, womanly seriousness was full of infinite pathos.  She had not released his hand.  She bent forward suddenly, leaning from her saddle, and kissed his cheek.  “And good-bye, my playmate!” she whispered.  While his fingers still throbbed with the last pressure of her hand, the black mouth of the big bridge swallowed her.  He listened to the ringing hoof-beats of her horse till sudden silence told him she had reached the soft soil on the other shore.

He did not gallop to meet his grandfather.  He walked his horse for the long mile past the scattered houses of the village till he came to “The Barracks.”

When he was still some distance away he saw in the gloom of the porch the red coal of the Duke’s cigar.  Even then he did not rush forward to protest and denounce.

He slipped off his horse, and led him toward the porch.  But before he could speak his grandfather hailed him.

“Run in to your supper, bub.  The boys are holding it hot for you.  Luke and I were too hungry to wait.”

“I can’t eat now—­not with what’s on my mind.”

“Oh, bub—­bub!  Run along with you!  There’s plenty of time for talk.  I’ll be here when you come out.  Get something to eat, now!  That’s a good boy!”

Somehow he couldn’t begin the attack just then.  That tone was too affectionate, too matter-of-fact.  And even then his hand seemed to feel the pressure of the little fingers that had released him at the bridge, and the choking feeling was still in his throat.

He gave his horse over to the hostler, and went into the house.

The lamp in the old mess-room thrust its beams only a little way into the gloom.  It shone over the table and left the corners dark.  The cookee brought the food from the kitchen, poured the tea, and then wiped his hands briskly on his canvas apron.

“I want to shake with you, Mr. Harlan!” He put out his hand, so frankly confident that he was doing the proper thing that the young man grasped it.  “It was done to ’em good and proper.  They tried to pull too hot a kittle out of the bean-hole that time—­sure they did!  I congratulate you!  I knowed you’d get into politics some day.”

Harlan pulled his hand away, and began to eat.

“Served up hot to ’em—­that mess was,” chuckled the cookee, on the easy terms of the familiar in the household.  “Nothing like a rousin’ fire if you’re going to make the political pot bile in good shape.”

He chuckled significantly.

The man pushed the food nearer, for Harlan did not seem to be taking much interest in his supper.

“I suppose you’ll be boardin’ at Mr. Presson’s hotel when you get down to the legislature.  I had a meal there once.  They certainly do put it up fine.  Say, Mr. Harlan, what do you say?  Can’t you use your pull, and get me a job as waiter or something down there for the session?  Excuse me for gettin’ at it so quick, but I thought I’d hop in ahead of the rush—­they’ll all be after you for something, now that you’re nominated.”