“It has begun already, has it?” asked Converse, indignantly.  “Office-seekers at it?”

“Sure thing!” responded Mr. Breed, amiably.  “When you cool down you’ll remember that I got to you first with the good news.”

Five minutes later the Honorable Archer Converse, muttering, but more calm, was marching toward the convention hall in the company of a proud committee of notification.

He walked out upon the platform and waited for the wild tumult of greeting to subside, and while he waited he searched the assemblage with stern scrutiny to find the face of Walker Farr.

But that young worker of miracles was not in evidence.

He had risen with the others when the band began to blare the music which signaled the approach of the nominee.

Once more he turned his gaze toward the girl in the gallery.

There was nothing in his demeanor to suggest that he had been a victor.  His face was white, and after his eyes had held hers for a long time he gave her a wistful little smile which expressed regret, sorrow, renunciation, rather than pride.  She no longer wondered at the interest she felt in this man; she knew that she loved him.  She was able to own that truth to herself, and to view it calmly because she had made her promise to Richard Dodd and was resolved to keep it.  That determination made of this love a precious possession that she could put away for ever out of the sight of all the world.  Such a poor, meager, little story of love it was!  A few meetings—­a hand-touch—­a word or two.

There in that packed forum had been their only real love-making.  Over the heads of angry men they had told each other with their eyes.  There was no misunderstanding on the part of either.  Both knew the truth.

And yet, after he had told her, this enigma of a man bowed his head and edged his way to the door, moving unobtrusively through the press of humanity, taking advantage of the confusion which marked the entrance of Archer Converse.

Impulse goaded Kate Kilgour at that moment.  She did not reason or reflect.  Something in the air of this man told her that sorrow instead of triumph was dominating him; his whole demeanor had said “Farewell” when he had turned from her.  The instinct of the woman who loves and longs to comfort the object of that affection drove her out of the hall, and she followed him—­ashamed, marveling at herself, searching her soul for words with which to excuse her madness, should he turn and behold her.

But the autumn dusk was early and she was grateful because it shrouded her.

Farr, leaving the din of the convention, going forth alone, looked more like the vanquished than the victor.  He walked slowly, his head was lowered, and he turned off the Boulevard at once, seeking deserted streets which led him down toward the big mills.

Their myriad lights shone from dusty windows, row upon row, and the staccato chatter of the looms sounded ceaselessly.