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: