John and Kate watched them approvingly.  They knew the worth of the man; they were not at all worried over what was past.  They saw their own romance tenderly reflected.  Mrs. Bennington was utterly oblivious.  Mothers never realize that their daughters and sons must some day leave them; they refuse to accept this natural law; they lament over it to-day as they lamented in the days of the Old Testament.  The truth is, children are always children to the parents; paternal and maternal authority believes its right indefinite.

By this time all the newspapers, save the Telegraph, had made readable copy out of Warrington’s candidacy.  Why the Telegraph remained mute was rather mystifying.  Warrington saw the hand of McQuade in this.  The party papers had to defend the senator, but their defense was not so strong as it might have been.  Not a single sheet came out frankly for Warrington.  The young candidate smoked his pipe and said nothing, but mentally he was rolling up his sleeves a little each day.  He had not yet pulled through the convention.  Strong as the senator was, there might yet be a hitch in the final adjustment.  So far nothing had come of Bolles’ trip to New York.  Occasionally newspapers from the nearby towns fell into Warrington’s hands.  These spoke of his candidacy in the highest terms, and belabored the editors of Herculaneum for not accepting such a good chance of ridding itself of McQuadeism.

Meantime, there was fishing, long trips into the heart of the forests, dancing at the hotel at the head of the lake, billiards and music.  Warrington was already deeply tanned, and Patty’s nose was liberally sprinkled with golden freckles.

One evening Kate and John sat on the veranda from where they could easily watch Warrington and Patty in the music-room.

“What do you think of it, John?”

“There’s not a finer chap in the world.  But I don’t think Patty realizes yet.”

“Dear Patty!” Kate reached over and took his hand in hers, laying it against her cold cheek.  “What is it, John?  You have been worried all day.”

“Nothing; nothing to bother you with.”

“The shops?  It worries me when you don’t confide in me in everything.”

“Well, dear, the trouble I’ve been expecting for months is about to come.  You know that young Chittenden, the English inventor, has been experimenting with a machine that will do the work of five men.  They have been trying to force him to join the union, but he has refused, having had too many examples of unionism in his own country to risk his independence here.  Well, I received a letter from the general manager this morning.  Either Chittenden must join or go; otherwise the men will go out September first.”

“What shall you do?”

“I shall keep Chittenden.  I am master there,” striking the arm of his chair; “master in everything.  If they go out in September, it will be for good.  I shall tear down the shops and build model tenements.”