“Is Mrs. Packard in a hurry?” I asked.  “If so, you had better let me pass.”

He gave no appearance of having heard me; his attention had been caught by something going on at the rear of the hall we were now approaching.  Following his anxious glance, I saw the door of the mayor’s study open and Mrs. Packard come out.  As we reached the lower step, she passed us on her way to the library.  Wondering what errand had taken her to the study, which she was supposed not to visit, I turned to join her and caught a glimpse of the old man’s face.  It was more puckered, scowling and malignant of aspect than usual.  I was surprised that Mrs. Packard had not noticed it.  Surely it was not the countenance of a mere disgruntled servant.  Something not to be seen on the surface was disturbing this old man; and, moving in the shadows as I was, I questioned whether it would not conduce to some explanation between Mrs. Packard and myself if I addressed her on the subject of this old serving-man’s peculiar ways.

But the opportunity for doing this did not come that morning.  On entering the library I was met by Mrs. Packard with the remark: 

“Have you any interest in politics?  Do you know anything about the subject?”

“I have an interest in Mayor Packard’s election,” I smilingly assured her; “and I know that in this I represent a great number of people in this town if not in the state.”

“You want to see him governor?  You desired this before you came to this house?  You believe him to be a good man—­the right man for the place?”

“I certainly do, Mrs. Packard.”

“And you represent a large class who feel the same?”

“I think so, Mrs. Packard.”

“I am so glad!” Her tone was almost hysterical.  “My heart is set on this election,” she ardently explained.  “It means so much this year.  My husband is very ambitious.  So am I—­for him.  I would give—­” there she paused, caught back, it would seem, by some warning thought.  I took advantage of her preoccupation to scrutinize her features more closely than I had dared to do while she was directly addressing me.  I found them set in the stern mold of profound feeling—­womanly feeling, no doubt, but one actuated by causes far greater than the subject, serious as it was, apparently called for.  She would give—­

What lay beyond that give?

I never knew, for she never finished her sentence.

Observing the breathless interest her manner evoked, or possibly realizing how nearly she had come to an unnecessary if not unwise self-betrayal, she suddenly smoothed her brow and, catching up a piece of embroidery from the table, sat down with it in her hand.