Some one was stamping vigorously on the step, and as Sylvia opened the door, Dan Harwood stood there, just as on that other day; now, to be sure, he seemed taller than then, though it must be only the effect of his long ulster.

“How do you do, Sylvia,” he said, and stepped inside without waiting for a parley like that in which Sylvia had engaged him on that never-to-be-forgotten afternoon in June.  “You oughtn’t to try to hide; it isn’t fair for one thing, and hiding is impossible for another.”

“It’s too bad you came,” said Sylvia, “for I should have been home to-morrow.  I came just because I wanted to be alone for a day.”

“I came,” said Dan, laughing, “because I didn’t like being alone.”

“I hope Aunt Sally isn’t troubled about me.  I hadn’t time to tell her I was coming here; I don’t believe I really thought about it; I simply wanted to come back here once more before the house is turned over to strangers.”

“Oh, Aunt Sally wasn’t worried half as much as I was.  She said you were all right; she has great faith in your ability to take care of yourself.  I’m pretty sure of it, too,” he said, and bent his eyes upon her keenly.

There was nothing there to dismay him; her olive cheeks still glowed with color from her walk, and her eyes were clear and steady.

“Did you see the paper—­to-day’s paper?” he asked, when they were seated before the fire.

“No,” she replied, folding her arms and looking at the point of her slipper that rested against the brass fender.

“You will be glad to know that the trouble is all over.  Ramsay has the senatorship, all but the confirmation of the joint session, which is merely a formality.  They’ve conferred on me the joy of presenting his name.  Ramsay is clean and straight, and thoroughly in sympathy with all the new ideas that are sound.  Personally I like him.  He’s the most popular and the most presentable man we have, and his election to the Senate will greatly strengthen the party.”

He did not know how far he might speak of the result and of the causes that had contributed to it.  He was relieved when she asked, very simply and naturally,—­

“I suppose Mr. Bassett made it possible; it couldn’t have been, you couldn’t have brought it about, without him.”

“If he hadn’t withdrawn he could have had the nomination himself!  Thatcher’s supporters were growing wobbly and impatient.  We shouldn’t any of us care to see Thatcher occupy a seat in the Senate that has been filled by Oliver Morton and Joe MacDonald and Ben Harrison and Dave Turpie.  We Hoosiers are not perfect, but our Senators first and last have been men of brains and character.  Ramsay won’t break the apostolic succession; he’s all right.”

“You think Mr. Bassett might have had it; you have good reason for believing that?” she asked.

“I could name you the men who were ready to go to him.  He had the stampede all ready, down to the dress rehearsal.  He practically gave away a victory he had been working for all his life.”