“Silas,” he said slowly, “if you won’t drink it for me, perhaps you will drink it—­for—­Abraham—­Lincoln.”

The two who watched that scene have never forgotten it.  Outside, in the great cool store, the rattle of the trucks was heard, and Mr. Hopper giving commands.  Within was silence.  The straight figure of the Colonel towered above the sofa while he waited.  A full minute passed.  Once Judge Whipple’s bony hand opened and shut, and once his features worked.  Then, without warning, he sat up.

“Colonel,” said he, “I reckon I wouldn’t be much use to Abe if I took that.  But if you’ll send Ephum after, cup of coffee—­”

Mr. Carvel set the glass down.  In two strides he had reached the door and given the order.  Then he came hack and seated himself on the sofa.

Stephen found his mother at breakfast.  He had forgotten the convention He told her what had happened at Mr. Carvel’s store, and how the Colonel had tried to persuade Judge Whipple to take the Glencoe house while he was in Europe, and how the Judge had refused.  Tears were in the widow’s eyes when Stephen finished.

“And he means to stay here in the heat and go through, the campaign?” she asked.

“He says that he will not stir.”

“It will kill him, Stephen,” Mrs. Brice faltered.

“So the Colonel told him.  And he said that he would die willingly—­after Abraham Lincoln was elected.  He had nothing to live for but to fight for that.  He had never understood the world, and had quarrelled with at all his life.”

’He said that to Colonel Carvel?”

“Yes.”

“Stephen!”

He didn’t dare to look at his mother, nor she at him.  And when he reached the office, half an hour later, Mr. Whipple was seated in his chair, defiant and unapproachable.  Stephen sighed as he settled down to his work.  The thought of one who might have accomplished what her father could not was in his head.  She was at Monticello.

Some three weeks later Mr. Brinsmade’s buggy drew up at Mrs. Brice’s door.  The Brinsmade family had been for some time in the country.  And frequently, when that gentleman was detained in town by business, he would stop at the little home for tea.  The secret of the good man’s visit came out as he sat with them on the front steps afterward.

“I fear that it will be a hot summer, ma’am,” he had said to Mrs. Brice.  “You should go to the country.”

“The heat agrees with me remarkably, Mr. Brinsmade,” said the lady, smiling.

“I have heard that Colonel Carvel wishes to rent his house at Glencoe,” Mr. Brinsmade continued, “The figure is not high.”  He mentioned it.  And it was, indeed nominal.  “It struck me that a change of air would do you good, Mrs. Brice, and Stephen.  Knowing that you shared in our uneasiness concerning Judge Whipple, I thought—­”

He stopped, and looked at her.  It was a hard task even for that best and roost tactful of gentlemen, Mr. Brinsmade.  He too had misjudged this calm woman.