Harlan dropped off his horse and strode to Niles.  He seized him by the shoulder and shook him roughly, for the man had begun his oratory once more.

“Enough of that, Niles!  Was I chosen in the caucus to-day?  I want yes or no.”

“Yes—­and after three-quarters of the voters had been stampeded to fight that fire that was sweeping down on their property!  And you—­”

Harlan pushed him to one side, leaped upon his horse, and rode away.  The girl jumped her roan to his side.

“It’s wicked, Harlan,” she gasped, “wicked!  I heard him!  What are you going to do?”

That was another of her questions that he found it hard to answer.  “I’m going to find my grandfather, Clare, and I’m going in a great hurry.  Come, I can’t talk now, little girl!”

They galloped down the long hill to the bridge, their horses neck and neck.

“The last ride as playmates!” she cried, as they started.  Her voice broke, pathetically.  He did not reply.  He was too furiously angry to trust himself in conversation at that moment, and he rode like a madman, knowing that she could keep pace with him.

They drew rein at the end of the bridge.

“It’s only a bit of a run for you now, little girl.  I’ll keep on home.”

She put her hand out to him and held him for a moment.

“I’m afraid you’ll go away to be a big man, after all, Harlan,” she said, dolefully.

“Go in this way?  What are you talking about, child?” he demanded, choking, his fury getting possession of him.  “I’ve been disgraced—­abused.  I’ll—­but I mustn’t talk to you now—­the wicked words might slip out.”

But she would not loose his hand just then.

“I sent for you to come home because I heard father say that politics is wicked business.  But I didn’t know it was as wicked as this.  It’s no wonder they can’t get the good men like you to go into it.  If they could it would be better, wouldn’t it?”

Even in his distress it occurred to him that out of the mouth of this child was proceeding quaint and unconscious wisdom.

“I wish it wasn’t wicked,” she went on, wistfully.  “I’ve been thinking as I rode along that I’ve been selfish.  I’d like to see you a big man like some of those I’ve read about.  It was selfish of me to say I didn’t want you to get out of the woods and be a big man.”

“I couldn’t be one,” he protested.

“Even a foolish little girl up here in the woods has got faith that you can—­and men who are really big don’t forget their old friends.  I don’t want you mixed up in any wicked thing, Harlan, but I wouldn’t want you to go away from me thinking I was selfish and jealous.  That isn’t the right kind of a friend for any one to have.  I’ve been thinking it over.”

He stared at her through the dusk.  This sudden flash of worldly wisdom, this unselfish loyalty in one so young, rather startled him.

“That’s real grown-up talk, child,” he blurted.