“No,” said Lorne.  “He’s of no consequence.”

The familiar easy step in the house of his beloved, the house he was being entreated to leave with all speed, struck upon his heart and his nerves.  She, with her dull surface to the more delicate vibrations of things, failed to perceive this, or perhaps she would have thought it worth while to find some word to bring back his peace.  She disliked seeing people unhappy.  When she was five years old and her kitten broke its leg, she had given it to a servant to drown.

He took his hat, making no further attempt to caress her, and opened the door.  “I hope you will win, Lorne,” she said, half-resentfully, and he, with forced cheerfulness, replied, “Oh, we’ll have a shot at it.”  Then with a little silent nod at her which, notwithstanding her provocations, conveyed his love and trust, he went out into the struggle of the day.

In spite of Squire Ormiston’s confident prediction, it was known that the fight would be hottest, among the townships, in Moneida Reservation.  Elgin itself, of course, would lead the van for excitement, would be the real theatre for the arts of practical politics; but things would be pretty warm in Moneida, too.  It was for that reason that Bingham and the rest strongly advised Lorne not to spend too much of the day in the town, but to get out to Moneida early, and drive around with Ormiston—­stick to him like a fly to poison-paper.

“You leave Elgin to your friends,” said Bingham.  “Just show your face here and there wearing a smile of triumph, to encourage the crowd; but don’t worry about the details—­we’ll attend to them.”

“We can’t have him upsettin’ his own election by any interference with the boys,” said Bingham to Horace Williams.  “He’s got too long a nose for all kinds of things to be comfortable in town today.  He’ll do a great deal less harm trotting round the Reserve braced up against old Ormiston.”

So Elgin was left to the capable hands of the boys, for the furtherance of the Liberal interest and the sacred cause of imperialism.  Mr Farquharson, whose experience was longer and whose nose presumably shorter than the candidate’s, never abandoned the Town Ward.  Bingham skirmished between the polling-booths and the committee room.  Horace Williams was out all day—­Rawlins edited the paper.  The returns wouldn’t be ready in time for anything but an extra anyhow, and the “Stand to Arms, South Fox,” leader had been written two days ago.  The rest was millinery, or might be for all anybody would read of it.  The other side had a better idea of the value of their candidate than to send him into the country.  Walter Winter remained where he was most effective and most at home.  He had a neat little livery outfit, and he seemed to spend the whole day in it accompanied by intimate personal friends who had never spoken to him, much less driven with him, before.  Two or three strangers arrived the previous night