X

"O DEATH, WHERE IS THY VICTORY?"

PENMAN sat in the home office which he

called his library.

In all but years he had

Though he had aged

grown very old.

rapidly for months, he was older by a decade than when he had left the house that morning. He had come home at noon, confused, apathetic. Isabel sat on a low stool beside him, with her head on his knee and holding his hand, as she had used to do when she was a little child. She did not speak, but often kissed his long, thin fingers and looked up into his face.

At length, although the Denman mansion was distant from the business portion of the town, the music of a band and the shouting of men became distinctly audible. Then came the ringing of bells and the booming of cannon. Denman seemed not to hear. He sat in a stupor, with his head on his hand. A sharp ring at the telephone aroused him. In going to the instrument, only a few steps away, he staggered like a drunken man.

"The worst has happened," said the voice. "Craigin has been nominated by acclamation."

There was a heavy fall. Denman was stricken with apoplexy.

His

After several hours consciousness returned. right side was paralyzed; his face was drawn; his left eye remained open and immovable. His mind was clear. He could talk but little and with great difficulty. "Doctor," he said, "tell me the truth: shall I live or die?"

"I think it's possible you may live for months." "As I am?"

"I'm afraid so."

"So bad as that?" he said. "I hoped it would be death."

"It may be, Mr. Denman. You will have another shock. It may not come for weeks or months. It may come any time."

"May come any time?"

Death, even the living death of a paralytic, was nothing to Denman compared with the bitterness of defeat. He longed to die, for his pledge was unfulfilled and his power to keep it was broken; but he had one ruling passion left to gratify-his love for Isabel.

A distinguished specialist, summoned by telegraph, was ushered in.

"Doctor," said Denman, "for God's sake, tell me the truth: how soon is the next stroke coming?"

As the great specialist looked at the sick man he saw at a glance what the other had failed to note, and promptly answered, "It's on you now. If you have anything to say, say it instantly. Your time is measured by seconds."

A flash of the old unconquerable will lighted the

stricken man's face. "Tell Dick," he said, "he shall have ten thousand dollars if he gets Craigin here while I can speak."

Seconds passed, and a carriage and pair standing at the door tore down the long avenue with the speed of the wind. Seconds lengthened into minutes. In the halls and other rooms of the great house faithful servants grieved for a master who had been always generous, always kind. In a corner of her hus band's bedroom Mrs. Denman hysterically sobbed and shrieked unheeded. Isabel knelt beside her father, uttering no sound, pressing his unparalyzed hand to her lips, gazing into his face with great, dry, anguishstricken eyes. The two physicians-there was naught else they could do-stood at the bedside and saw a strange, an awful, an heroic thing.

Convulsively gripping his daughter's hand, the dying man set his teeth and fixed his unparalyzed eye on the great clock by the wall. Tick, tick, tick-slowly and solemnly the second-hand went round; tick, tick, tick, and the long minute-hand moved-moved as if it were measuring the ages of eternity. Tick, tick, tick-sixty seconds like hours, and again it moved. Once, twice, thrice, five, ten, fifteen, twenty-twenty times it moved. Twenty awful minutes, and still the teeth were set, the eye was fixed and undimmed, and the grim fight for another inch of life went on. "It's almost a miracle," whispered the specialist to his medical brother. "The stroke was falling as I entered. The man is holding death back by the sheer power of his will."

Cragin had been kept from the convention on the

pretext that his presence would make it more difficult to prevent a stampede from Strickland to himself. His name mingled with cheers and borne on banners was his first intimation of the conspiracy to nominate him. The procession marched by, singing and shouting. It came back and gathered in a dense mass before his office. Strickland, Harnett, and others rushed in. "You 're nominated," they exclaimed, "and must make a speech!"

He was dazed, and knew not what to say. They led him to a little balcony in front of his office windows. He was greeted with a mighty shout. Then all was still. He stood speechless, vainly trying to collect himself. Some one entered the balcony and said, "John Denman is dying." The crowd below, wondering at the delay, broke forth in renewed cheers. Craigin tried to tell them, and his voice failed him.

"Fellow-citizens," said Harnett, coming to the rescue, "we have just received sad news. It is reported that Mr. Denman is dying."

There was no more thought of speeches; there were no more cheers. All at once, as never before,—not even in the days of his unquestioned power,-men realized Denman's greatness of soul, his fidelity to his friends, his dauntless courage, his ever-abounding generosity, his acts of thoughtful kindness, his cheerful words, his genial smile, the cordial, honest grasp of his hand. Of the thousands who had banded together to break his power, hundreds had shared his bounty and all had felt its influence. The very churches whose bells had joyously pealed over his defeat had received largely of his gifts. In all ways, save one, he had been

so great a public benefactor, so wise and strong and good, overshadowing all about him less by his millions than by his greatness and his graciousness, it seemed as if he could not die. Men spoke through tears, almost in whispers. An awful silence reigned in Apsleigh.

Craigin found himself seated in his office chair, scarcely knowing how he got there. Friends were around him, but when they spoke to him he answered in monosyllables and absently. They understood and silently withdrew. The past came up before him. Again he seemed to feel Tom Andrews's arms around his neck and hear him saying: "The more chance there is of struggle and sacrifice for an ideal, the more you'll persuade yourself it 's your duty." "We've been like brothers for seven years, chum, and I love you better than any one else in the world except my mother, and next to you I love Uncle John. As sure as you go, chum, there 'll misery come of it." "I know it is n't a bit of use, but I can't help saying, don't go !" Again he seemed to hear Denman say: "There are horses and dogs and guns and boats and fishing-tackle at your service. There's always a spare knife and fork at our table; drop in as often as you can-breakfast, lunch, or dinner. We all play whist. We want you to come and go just as Tom would if he were living here." Again he seemed to go and come, less as a welcome guest than as a member of the family. The agonizing struggles in his own soul came back to him-love pulling at his heartstrings, the blind groping in anguish of spirit to know what duty was, and the solemn oath, "I'll live and die doing what I believe is right, cost what it will, so help me God!"