At sixteen minutes to eight a mild excitement occurred, an incident of some significance which served to detain many waverers.  Senator Peleg Hartington walked up the aisle, and the judge rose and shook him by the hand, and as Deacon Hartington he was invited to sit on the platform.  The senator’s personal influence was not to be ignored; and it had sufficed to carry his district in the last election against the Worthington forces, in spite of the abdication of Jethro Bass.  Mr. Page, the editor of the Clarion, Senator Hartington’s organ, was also on the platform.  But where was Mr. Ives?  Where was that Gamaliel who had been such a warm partisan in the postoffice that morning?

“Saw him outside the hall—­wahn’t but ten minutes ago,” said Deacon Hartington, sadly; “thought he was a-comin’ in.”

Eight o’clock came, and no Mr. Ives; ten minutes past—­fifteen minutes past.  If the truth must be told, Mr. Ives had been on the very threshold of the hall, and one glance at the poor sprinkling of people there had decided him.  Mr. Ives had a natural aversion to being laughed at, and as he walked back on the darker side of the street he wished heartily that he had stuck to his original Gamaliel-advocacy of no interference, of allowing the Supreme Judge to decide.  Such opinions were inevitably just, Mr. Ives was well aware, though not always handed down immediately.  If he were to humble the first citizen, Mr. Ives reflected that a better opportunity might present itself.  The whistle of the up-train served to strengthen his resolution, for he was reminded thereby that his mill often had occasion to ask favors of the Truro Railroad.

In the meantime it was twenty minutes past eight in the town hall, and Mr. Graves had not rapped for order.  Deacon Hartington sat as motionless as a stork on the borders of a glassy lake at sunrise, the judge had begun seriously to estimate the gas bill, and Mr. Page had chewed up the end of a pencil.  There was one, at least, in the audience of whom the judge could be sure.  A certain old soldier in blue sat uncompromisingly on the front bench with his hands crossed over the head of his stick; but the ladies and gentlemen nearest the door were beginning to vanish, one by one, silently as ghosts, when suddenly the judge sat up.  He would have rubbed his eyes, had he been that kind of a man.  Four persons had entered the hall—­he was sure of it—­and with no uncertain steps as if frightened by its emptiness.  No, they came boldly.  And after them trooped others, and still others were heard in the street beyond, not whispering, but talking in the unmistakable tones of people who had more coming behind them.  Yes, and more came.  It was no illusion, or delusion:  there they were filling the hall as if they meant to stay, and buzzing with excitement.  The judge was quivering with excitement now, but he, too, was only a spectator of the drama.  And what a drama, with a miracle-play for Brampton!