That same Monday a circumstance of no small importance took place in Brampton—­nothing less than the return, after a prolonged absence in the West and elsewhere, of its first citizen.  Isaac D. Worthington was again in residence.  No bells were rung, indeed, and no delegation of citizens as such, headed by the selectmen, met him at the station; and other feudal expressions of fealty were lacking.  No staff flew Mr. Worthington’s arms; nevertheless the lord of Brampton was in his castle again, and Brampton felt that he was there.  He arrived alone, wearing the silk hat which had become habitual with him now, and stepping into his barouche at the station had been driven up Brampton Street behind his grays, looking neither to the right nor left.  His reddish chop whiskers seemed to cling a little more closely to his face than formerly, and long years of compression made his mouth look sterner than ever.  A hawk-like man, Isaac Worthington, to be reckoned with and feared, whether in a frock coat or in breastplate and mail.

His seneschal, Mr. Flint, was awaiting him in the library.  Mr. Flint was large and very ugly, big-boned, smooth-shaven, with coarse features all askew, and a large nose with many excrescences, and thick lips.  He was forty-two.  From a foreman of the mills he had risen, step by step, to his present position, which no one seemed able to define.  He was, indeed, a seneschal.  He managed the mills in his lord’s absence, and—­if the truth be told—­in his presence; knotty questions of the Truro Railroad were brought to Mr. Flint and submitted to Mr. Worthington, who decided them, with Mr. Flint’s advice; and, within the last three months, Mr. Flint had invaded the realm of politics, quietly, as such a man would, under the cover of his patron’s name and glory.  Mr. Flint it was who had bought the Newcastle Guardian, who went occasionally to Newcastle and spoke a few effective words now and then to the editor; and, if the truth will out, Mr. Flint had largely conceived that scheme about the railroads which was to set Mr. Worthington on the throne of the state, although the scheme was not now being carried out according to Mr. Flint’s wishes.  Mr. Flint was, in a sense, a Bismarck, but he was not as yet all powerful.  Sometimes his august master or one of his fellow petty sovereigns would sweep Mr. Flint’s plans into the waste basket, and then Mr. Flint would be content to wait.  To complete the character sketch, Mr. Flint was not above hanging up his master’s hat and coat, Which he did upon the present occasion, and went up to Mr. Worthington’s bedroom to fetch a pocket handkerchief out of the second drawer.  He even knew where the handkerchiefs were kept.  Lucky petty sovereigns sometimes possess Mr. Flints to make them emperors.

The august personage seated himself briskly at his desk.

“So that scoundrel Bass is actually discredited at last,” he said, blowing his nose in the pocket handkerchief Mr. Flint had brought him.  “I lose patience when I think how long we’ve stood the rascal in this state.  I knew the people would rise in their indignation when they learned the truth about him.”