“Then, my dear, you are sacrificing yourself uselessly.  I don’t know a Yorkshire man who would vote for any candidate for any office because he liked him personally.  I would not do so.  My father never did such a thing, and Harry, though so thoughtless and emotional, would be equally stubborn.”

“But why?  Such nonsense, John!”

“No.  You do not vote for yourself only; your interest is bound up with the interests of many others.  You may be voting for a generation yet unborn.  A vote is a sacred obligation.”

“I am glad you have told me this.  I can now drop several names from my visiting list.”

“If you think that is the right way—­”

“What do you think is the right way?”

“The kind way is the right way and also the wise way.”

“O John, what uncomfortable things you can think of!”

Until the great dinner at Hatton Hall was over, it formed the staple of conversation in the neighborhood.  Everyone wondered who would be there and who would be left out.  About the dinner itself there was no doubt, for there is little variety in such entertainments.  The meat and the drink offerings are similar, and the company are bound by fashion and commonplaces.  In the days of John’s father men drank heavily of red wines and it was the recognized way for ladies to leave them awhile to discuss their port and politics.  John Hatton’s hospitality was of a more modern type, although it still preserved a kind of antique stateliness.  And this night it had a very certain air of a somewhat anxious amusement.  The manufacturers silently wondered as to the condition of each other’s mills, and the landed gentry had in their minds a fear of the ability of the land to meet the demands that were likely to be made upon it.

It was a happy turn of feeling that followed an impetuous, unanimous call for song, and Harry rose in their midst and made the room ring to,

    “Ye mariners of England,
      That guard our native seas,
    Whose flag has braved a thousand years,
      The battle and the breeze.

    “Britannia needs no bulwarks,
      No towers along the steep,
    Her march is on the mountain waves,
      Her home is on the deep.

    “The meteor flag of England! 
      Shall yet terrific burn,
    Till Danger’s troubled night depart,
      And the Star of Peace return.”

The last line spoke for every heart, and the honest, proud, joyous burst of loyalty and admiration made men and women something more than men and women for a few glorified moments.  Then the satisfied lull that followed was thrilled anew by that most delicious charmful music ever written, “O sweetest melody!” This was the event of the evening.  It drew Harry close to every heart.  It made his mother the proudest woman in Yorkshire.  It caused John to smile at his brother and to clasp his hand as he passed him.  It charmed Jane and Lucy and they glanced at each other with wondering pleasure and delight.