CHAPTER VIII




Half an hour later the little cast-iron bell in the steeple of the
meeting-house rang. Tom Drake and his wife and John Webb left the
farmhouse, and, joining some people from the village, sauntered down
the road. Tom was in his shirt-sleeves, for the evening was warm, but
Mrs. Drake wore her best black dress with a bright piece of ribbon at
the neck, a scarf over her head. Webb carried his coat on his arm and
was cooling himself with a palm-leaf fan.

Mostyn was on the lawn watching for Dolly to appear, and was glad that
the trio had left her to his care. They were out of sight when Dolly
came out of the house, a piece of writing-paper in her hand. Mostyn
met her at the gate and opened it for her.

"Well, what luck have you had with your speech?" he asked, as they
passed out.

"'What luck,' I say!" She shrugged her shoulders and smiled
despondently. "The harder I thought, the fewer ideas seemed to come my
way. I give you my word, Mr. Mostyn, I haven't a ghost of an argument.
I don't want to vote myself, you see, and I don't see how I am going