He sat there looking at it, knowing full well that it would not
contribute to his peace of mind. It did not make for placidity of
spirit to be told at the end of things that he had, as a matter of
fact, never been anybody at all. And the bitterest part of it was
that, looking back on it now, getting it from the viewpoint of one
stepping from it, he could see just how true was the statement:
"Harvey Francis has been the real Governor of the State; John
Morrison his mouthpiece and figurehead."

He walked to the window and looked out over the January landscape.
It may have been the snowy hills, as well as the thoughts weighing
him down, that carried him back across the years to one snowy
afternoon when he stood up in a little red schoolhouse and delivered
an oration on "The Responsibilities of Statesmanship." He smiled as
the title came back to him, and yet--what had become of the spirit
of that seventeen-year-old boy? He had meant it all then; he could
remember the thrill with which he stood there that afternoon long
before and poured out his sentiments regarding the sacredness of
public trusts. What was it had kept him, when his chance came, from
working out in his life the things he had so fervently poured into
his schoolboy oration?

Someone was tapping at the door. It was an easy, confident tap, and
there was a good deal of reflex action in the Governor's "Come in."

"Indulging in a little meditation?"

The Governor frowned at the way Francis said it, and the latter went
on, easily: "Just came from a row with Dorman. Everybody is holding
him up for tickets, and he--poor young fool--looks as though he