Judge Thorn roused himself from the spell that had been cast over him by the news in the crumpled paper.
A second time he took it in his hands and slowly, solemnly crushed it.
"The rank and file, the men whose honesty and virtue have made the party great," he said, "have been defrauded, outraged. My support of the administration and of the party of my political life is forever ended unless it reclaim the right to a decent man's support."
While her father talked, Jean, lest in the first moments of her delightful discovery she should clap her hands or cry or dance or in some other unconventional way outrage grave decorum, returned to her seat and her guitar.
The fringed palm threw long jagged shadows over her dress and stretched away to meet the firelight dancing on the hearth-rug.
The mingled tones of the two voices reached her ear, but she heard them indistinctly. To the soft strains that answered the strokes of her fingers, she kept repeating over and over to herself, "He is awake, he is awake."
Presently she heard her father leave the room.
Then her heart began to whirl and beat in a way unknown to her before. She caught the faint chime of a distant steeple bell and the notes of the low music died away to a plaintive breathing as she counted the strokes, for she knew the fateful hour of her life was at hand.
Just as the last stroke quivered out onto the new hour, he came. He sat down beside her and putting aside the guitar, drew her close to him.