The bell rang, and she was a little startled at the fright that struck her heart. She did not analyze it. In reality--pride forbade her to admit it--she feared it was a call of some of Harry's friends: some languid, assured Southern ladies, perilously gowned, with veiled disdain for this interloping Northerner and her strong mind. Especially was there one from New Orleans, tall and dark-But it was no caller. It was simply some one named Stillings to see Mr. Cresswell. She went down to see him--he might be a constituent--and found a smirky brown man, very apologetic.

"You don't know me--does you, Mrs. Cresswell?" said Stillings. He knew when it was diplomatic to forget his grammar and assume his dialect.

"Why--no."

"You remember I worked for Mr. Harry and served you-all lunch one day."

"Oh, yes--why, yes! I remember now very well."

"Well, I wants to see Mr. Harry very much; could I wait in the back hall?"

Mary started to have him wait in the front hall, but she thought better of it and had him shown back. Less than an hour later her husband entered and she went quickly to him. He looked worn and white and tired, but he laughed her concern lightly off.

"I'll be in earlier tonight," he declared.

"Is the Congressional business very heavy?"

He laughed so hilariously that she felt uncomfortable, which he observed.

"Oh, no," he answered deftly; "not very." And as they moved toward the dining-room Mary changed the subject.

"Oh," she exclaimed, suddenly remembering. "There is a man--a colored man--waiting to see you in the back hall, but I guess he can wait until after lunch."

They ate leisurely.

"There's going to be racing out at the park this evening," said Harry. "Want to go?"

"I was going to hear an art lecture at the Club," Mary returned, and grew thoughtful; for here walked her ghost again. Of course, the Club was an affair with more of gossip than of intellectual effort, but today, largely through her own suggestion, an art teacher of European reputation was going to lecture, and Mary preferred it to the company of the race track. And--just as certainly--her husband didn't.

"Don't forget the man, dear," she reminded him; but he was buried in his paper, frowning.

"Look at that," he said finally. She glanced at the head-lines--"Prominent Negro Politician Candidate for High Office at Hands of New Administration. B. Alwyn of Alabama."

"Why, it's Bles!" she said, her face lighting as his darkened.

"An impudent Negro," he voiced his disgust. "If they must appoint darkies why can't they get tractable ones like my nigger Stillings."




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