in the movement as the Armenians or the Mesopotamians, and will be a great favor to me.”  Polly, good soul! was tempted, and she promised.  She knew Mrs. Isaacs was starving, and the babies—­she knew Dennis was at home—­and she promised!  Night came, and I returned.  I heard her story.  I was sorry.  I doubted.  But Polly had promised to beg me, and I dared all!  I told Dennis to hold his peace, under all circumstances, and sent him down.

It was not half an hour more before he returned, wild with excitement—­in a perfect Irish fury—­which it was long before I understood.  But I knew at once that he had undone me!

What happened was this:  The audience got together, attracted by Governor Gorges’s name.  There were a thousand people.  Poor Gorges was late from Augusta.  They became impatient.  He came in direct from the train at last, really ignorant of the object of the meeting.  He opened it in the fewest possible words, and said other gentlemen were present who would entertain them better than he.  The audience were disappointed, but waited.  The Governor, prompted by Isaacs, said, “The Honorable Mr. Delafield will address you.”  Delafield had forgotten the knives and forks, and was playing the Ruy Lopez opening at the chess club.  “The Rev. Mr. Auchmuty will address you.”  Auchmuty had promised to speak late, and was at the school committee.  “I see Dr. Stearns in the hall; perhaps he will say a word.”  Dr. Stearns said he had come to listen and not to speak.  The Governor and Isaacs whispered.  The Governor looked at Dennis, who was resplendent on the platform; but Isaacs, to give him his due, shook his head.  But the look was enough.  A miserable lad, ill-bred, who had once been in Boston, thought it would sound well to call for me, and peeped out, “Ingham!” A few more wretches cried, “Ingham!  Ingham!” Still Isaacs was firm; but the Governor, anxious, indeed, to prevent a row, knew I would say something, and said, “Our friend Mr. Ingham is always prepared—­and though we had not relied upon him, he will say a word, perhaps.”  Applause followed, which turned Dennis’s head.  He rose, flattered, and tried No. 3:  “There has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that I will not longer occupy the time!” and sat down, looking for his hat; for things seemed squally.  But the people cried, “Go on! go on!” and some applauded.  Dennis, still confused, but flattered by the applause, to which neither he nor I are used, rose again, and this time tried No. 2:  “I am very glad you liked it!” in a sonorous, clear delivery.  My best friends stared.  All the people who did not know me personally yelled with delight at the aspect of the evening; the Governor was beside himself, and poor Isaacs thought he was undone!  Alas, it was I!  A boy in the gallery cried in a loud tone, “It’s all an infernal humbug,” just as Dennis, waving his hand, commanded silence, and tried No. 4:  “I agree, in general, with my friend the other side of the room.”  The poor Governor doubted his senses, and crossed to stop him—­not in time, however.  The same gallery-boy shouted, “How’s your mother?”—­and Dennis, now completely lost, tried, as his last shot, No. 1, vainly:  “Very well, thank you; and you?”