“But I’ll walk home with you!” he called.

“No, I’ll not be frightened at the dark until I get old enough to be called an old maid,” she said, mischievously.  “Good-night!”

He waited by the side of the river until he saw her white figure safely through the dark bridge, and on its way up the quiet hillside past the church.  Then he rode to “The Barracks,” his mind dwelling a bit more particularly on the vagaries of womankind than it ever had before.

He joined his grandfather on the porch after he had eaten his supper alone.

“The fences, so I hear, Harlan, will pass the inspection of the most expert fence-viewers,” he chuckled.  “So I suppose you’ll be ready to leave with me to-morrow.”

“If you think it’s necessary to have me go anywhere with you, grandfather, I’ll go.”

There was silence for a time.  The young man was waiting.  The old man smoked placidly.

“Is there any reason why you can’t tell me where we are going?” inquired Harlan.

“No especial reason—­only I’ll be wasting time telling you.  You’ll see for yourself.  We’ll meet a big man or so—­that’s all!”

“The man I’d like to meet,” began the young man, fervently, “is one that every young chap in this country can follow and ought to follow, if he’s got red blood and honesty in him.  I wish I could meet him now when I’m starting out, if only to shake his hand.”

“You’d better not meet any man so long as he’s wearing a halo, where you’re concerned.  You’ll find political halos, bub, when you get too near to ’em, something like restaurant doughnuts—­holes surrounded by poor cooking.  Better keep away a spell.  That’s why I’m not going to tell you where we’re going—­not just now.  I might go to cracking up the man too much.  I’ll let you build your own halo for him—­and then maybe you can eat your own cooking, provided you find the halo a doughnut.”

They left Fort Canibas the next morning, travelling humbly by mail stage to the railroad terminus.  The branch line took them to a populous junction, and by that time Harlan Thornton began to appreciate that his grandfather was rather more of a figure in State politics than he had dreamed.  He had made many trips with him through the State in years past, but never before when men understood, some dimly, some fearfully, that a political crisis was on.  Thelismer Thornton’s seat in the train, his room at the hotel, was besieged by those who respectfully solicited his opinions.  They seemed to realize that some of the wisdom of the fathers in State politics, of the patriarchs with whom he had trained, had fallen to him by natural inheritance.  But though he listened patiently, he said but little.  Harlan noticed, however, that he did take especial pains to deprecate some of the suppressive movements advised by the more hot-headed managers.

“Let things swing as they’re going,” he advised.  “She’ll take care of herself, give her free run right now.  But you can’t pinch up a line gale by putting a clothespin on the nose of the tempest.  Let her snort!  Brace the party and face it like a hitching—­post!  Don’t try to choke off Arba Spinney.  Let him froth.”