A BLEEDING HEART
One night early in November, when nearly all Rosemont's lights were out and a wet brisk wind was flirting and tearing the yellowed leaves of the oaks, the windows of Mrs. Garnet's room were still bright. She sat by a small fire with Barbara at her knee. It had been election-day and the college was silent with chagrin.
"Is pop-a going to get elected, mom-a?"
"I don't think he is, my child."
"But you hope he is, don't you?"
"Listen," murmured the mother.
Barbara heard a horse's feet. Presently her father's step was in the hall and on the stairs. He entered, kissed wife and child, and sat down with a look first of care and fatigue, and then a proud smile.
"Well, Launcelot's elected."
A solemn defiance came about his mouth, but on his brow was dejection and distress.
"You know, Rose," he said, "that for myself, I don't care."