No contrast could have been greater than that between the scene on which he looked down—­the park, the flowers, the fountains, and the people—­and the palmetto clearing in far away Florida.  He did not know of the funeral and the group assembled around the log-cabin.  But he knew of the clearing.  He had been there, and always felt his blood tingle when he thought of it, and it was the picture of it which had haunted him all day, and which came and stood beside him, shutting out everything else, as he began to thank the people for the honor conferred upon him by calling the town by his name.

He didn’t deserve it, he said.  He didn’t deserve anything from anybody.

“Yes, you do,” went up from a hundred throats, for under the influence of the good cheer and the attention paid them the man was for the time being a hero.

“No, I don’t,” he continued.  “I am a morally weak man—­weaker than water where my pride is concerned—­and if you knew me as I know myself you would say I was more deserving of tar and feathers than the honor you have conferred upon me.”

This was not at all what he intended to say, but the words seemed forced from him by that picture of the palmetto clearing standing so close to him.  His audience did not know what he meant.  So far as they knew he had been perfectly upright, with no fault but his pride and coldness by which he came rightfully as a Crompton.  He must have visited the punch bowls too often, they thought, and didn’t know what he was talking about.  After a pause, during which he was trying to thrust aside the clearing, and the log-house, and the old woman in her chair, and Mandy Ann, and to pull himself together, he went on to say: 

“You have been for a long time discussing the site of a new school-house, in place of the old one which stands so near the marshes, that it is a wonder your children have not all died with fever and ague.  Some of you want it on the hill—­some under the hill—­some in one place, and some in another.  Nobody wants it near his own premises.  A school-house with a lot of howling children is not a desirable neighbor to most people.  For my part I don’t object to it.  I like children.”

Here he stopped suddenly as the image of a child he had never seen came before him and choked his utterance, while the people looked at each other, and wondered how long he had been so fond of children.  It was generally conceded that he did not care for them—­disliked them in fact—­and he had never been known to notice one in any way.  Surely he had been too near the claret bowls.  He detected the thought of those nearest to him, and continued: 

“I am not one to show all I feel.  It is not my nature.  I am interested in children, and as proof of it I will tell you my plan.  There are two acres of land on the south side of the park.  I fenced it off for an artificial pond, but gave it up.  There is a spring of good water there, with plenty of shade trees for the children to play under.  I will give this land for the new school-house.”