office of the Point Elizabeth Bank! Above the mantel--the place of
honor--was the painting of a martyr. He wondered whether another stroke
of the brush would have brought a smile to the face, or an expression of
sadness. The hands were very large--they had once broken iron bands.

In one corner was a shot-gun; tennis rackets in another; on a chair
were snow-shoes and on the desk a sheaf of roses.

Those whom the President had sifted into his office from the crowd
outside engaged in conversation. A Senator discussed the ball game with
a Supreme Court Justice; a General advised an Author to try deep breathing.

The President returned more animated than before. He placed a
hand on Dale's shoulder: "Be comfortable--and stay for lunch; nobody
but us."

The crowd paid sudden respect to the homespun citizen of an older day,
and a great happiness came into his heart--it was like the unfolding of one
of the roses. Not that he was to lunch with the President, though Dale's
was the village estimate of human greatness. A vaster issue was before
him, and this was a token of success--a success which would bind up his
remaining years with peace, and give glorious recompense to the companion
of his few joys and many griefs.

The President hurriedly signed his name to parchments.

"I'm making a few postmasters." He smiled toward the sofa. "It's no
trouble here--that's all at the other end of the line."

Without stopping the pen, he discussed matters with one statesman