“Governor, I want to tell you about Lindsay Lee.  I know you’ll be interested, though you did have some mysterious fight before she left.  She’s been awfully ill with pleurisy, a painful attack, and she’s getting well very slowly.  They have just taken her to Paul Smith’s.  I’m writing her to-morrow, and I want you to send a good message; it would please her.”

It was hard to stand with eighteen people grouped about him, all more or less with an eye on his motions, and be the Governor, calm and dignified, while hot irons were being applied to his heart by this smiling girl.

“But, Miss Alice,” he said, slowly, “I’m afraid you are wrong.  I was unfortunate enough to make Miss Lee very angry.  I am afraid she would think a message from me only an impertinence.”

“Sir,” said Alice, with decision, “I’m right sometimes, if I’m not Governor; and it’s better to be right than to be Governor, I’ve heard—­or something.  You trust me.  Just try the effect of a message, and see if it isn’t a success.  What shall I say?”

The Governor was impetuous, and in spite of all the work he had done so fiercely, the longing the work had been meant to quiet surged up as strong as ever.  “Miss Alice,” he said, eagerly, “if you are right, would it do—­do you think I might deliver the message myself?”

“Do I think?  Well, if I were a man!  Faint heart, you know!”

And the Governor, at that choppy eloquence, openly seized the friendly young hand and wrung it till Alice begged, laughing but bruised, for mercy.  When he came up, later, to bid her good-night, his face was bright, and,

“Good-night, Angel of Peace,” he said.

* * * * *

Mary Mooney, who through the dark days had watched with anxious though uncomprehending eyes her boy’s dejection and hard effort to live it down, and had applied partridges and sweetbreads and other forms of devotion steadily but unsuccessfully, saw at once and with, rapture the change when the Governor greeted her the next morning.  Light-heartedly she packed his traps two days later—­she had done it jealously for thirty-five years, though almost over the dead body of the Governor’s man sometimes in these later days.  And when he told her good-by she had her reward.  The man’s boyish heart went out in a burst of gratitude to the tireless love that had sought only his happiness all his life.  He put his arm around the stout little woman’s neck.

“Mary,” he said, “I’m going to see Miss Lee.”

Mary’s pink cheeks were scarlet as she patted with a work-worn palm the strong hand on her shoulder.  “Then I know what will happen,” she said, “and I’m glad.  And if you don’t bring her back with you, Mr. Jack, I won’t let you in.”

So the stately Governor went off like a schoolboy with his nurse’s blessing.  And later like an arrow from a bow he swung around the corner of the snowy piazza at Paul Smith’s, where Mrs. Lee had told him he would find her daughter.  There was a bundle of fur in a big chair in the sunlight, dark against the white hills beyond, with their black lines of pine-trees.  As the impetuous steps came nearer, it turned, and—­the Governor’s methods were again such that words do them no justice.  But this time with happier result.  Half an hour later, when some coherency was established, he said: