The habits of the Gulmore household were in some respects primitive.
Though it was not yet seven o'clock two negro girls were clearing away
the breakfast things under the minute supervision of their mistress, an
angular, sharp-faced woman with a reedy voice, and nervously abrupt
movements. Near the table sat a girl of nineteen absorbed in a book. In
an easy-chair by the open bay-window a man with a cigar in his mouth was
reading a newspaper. Jonathan Byrne Gulmore, as he always signed
himself, was about fifty years of age; his heavy frame was muscular, and
the coarse dark hair and swarthy skin showed vigorous health. There was
both obstinacy and combativeness in his face with its cocked nose, low
irregular forehead, thick eyebrows, and square jaw, but the deep-set
grey eyes gleamed at times with humorous comprehension, and the usual
expression of the countenance was far from ill-natured. As he laid the
paper on his knees and looked up, he drew the eye. His size and strength
seemed to be the physical equivalents of an extraordinary power of
character and will. When Mrs. Gulmore followed the servants out of the
room the girl rose from her chair and went towards the door. She was
stopped by her father's voice:

"Ida, I want a talk with you. You'll be able to go to your books
afterwards; I won't keep you long." She sat down again and laid her book
on the table, while Mr. Gulmore continued:

"The election's next Monday week, and I've no time to lose." A moment's
silence, and he let his question fall casually:

"You know this--Professor Roberts--don't you? He was at the University
when you were there--eh?" The girl flushed slightly as she assented.

"They say he's smart, an' he ken talk. I heard him the other night; but