“I don’t expect to be elected,” he said one evening, “that is, not this time. But I’m giving the ground a good, deep plowing, and there’ll be a different crop to reap two years from now.”
His opponent, a Douglas Democrat, won the day, but by so narrow a margin that Hardaker was almost as exultant as if he had been successful. “Two years more of the way things are going now,” he declared, “and we’ll sweep the country!”
“Suppose you do, what good will it do?” said old Mr. Kimball. “Your Republican party expressly says it won’t interfere with slavery in the South.”
“It will bring on a crisis,” interjected Dr. Ware, “and a crisis is exactly the thing we want. The South won’t stand a Republican president. And when she tries to leave the Union the upheaval will come.”
Not long after the election Hardaker sought Rhoda in more buoyant mood than ever, to tell her that he and Marcia were to be married. She assured him that she was heartily glad, and really felt all that she said, and even more. But her sincere rejoicing did not prevent her from looking sadly out of her window that night and feeling that something very dear and pleasant had gone out of her life beyond all recovery. She would not, if she could, have held Hardaker’s love in fruitless thrall, but it had been so comforting, so gratifying, to know how surely it was hers and she had so grown to expect one of his recurrent proposals every year or so that it cost her a little wrench now to give it all up.
“He’ll make Marcia a good, loving husband,” she thought, “and with his talent and ambition he’ll succeed. Oh, they’ll be happy, and I’m glad.”
Her eyes grew sad and the lines of her face drooped as she sat beside her window. And after a while she took out the little box with its treasure of letters and withered flower. She did not read the letters, of which there was now nearly a box full, but turned them over caressingly in her hands and now and then pressed one to her lips.
Rhoda was bridesmaid when Horace and Marcia were married in the early spring. “It’s your third time, isn’t it, dear,” said Marcia as her friend draped about her shoulders the folds of her bridal veil. “I do hope it will be you yourself, next time!”
“So do I, Marcia!” said Rhoda frankly, looking up with a smile. “There isn’t a girl anywhere who’d more willingly be a bride than I, if—if—if!”
“Rhoda, you’re the dearest, bravest girl!” cried Marcia, squeezing her hand. “If I was in your place I’d be crying my eyes out instead of laughing like that!”