In a little village, far off in the eastern part of the State, a great crowd was assembling. The planters and their wives and children, every one from the adjoining counties, were going into the village that morning. Some rode horses; others mules; some were in crude wagons without springs; others in old coaches no longer fit for regular service; and many on foot—all of them followed by their favourite slaves. It was to be a great day in the lives of these simple country folk. Tidings had gone forth that the great lawyer was to speak to them that day, telling them all about their rights; explaining to them the mysteries of their great Constitution, and the importance of proper representation. Every man felt it his special duty to hear what was going to be said, and although this celebrated lawyer was not of their political beliefs, being a Whig while the county was Democratic, they were glad of the opportunity to hear a man speak, whose name was becoming a byword throughout the State. Though un-lettered, hard-fisted woodland patriots caring little for the outside world except in what would bring them absolute freedom, they were still keenly alive to the needs and laws that would open their great forests to the civilized world.
And while the sun rose higher and the brilliance of the June morning deepened, and the crowd grew larger and more impatient, the man who had caused all this interest sat in the cool shade of a veranda, looking steadily out before him through deeply brooding eyes.
It was a beautiful scene of wide, luxuriant cotton fields, stretching out before him. Nearby, a garden of luxuriant flowers, guarded by smoothly clipped box hedges, filled the air with a delicious fragrance.
Beside him on the veranda, comfortably lounging in a spacious rocking chair, sat his host, Colonel Pickram; a portly old gentleman, bluff and hearty, and red of face. Beyond, through the open window, came the laughter and gay chatter of the two daughters of the house, healthy, comely girls who moved about the room, giving directions for what was to be a sumptuous dinner.
Colonel Pickram gazed at his guest under questioning brows. The great lawyer was not to-day as he had known him before. The virility and life seemed to have lessened in him since the last visit; he was no longer the sparkling conversationalist he had known before; the winning humour that had drawn every one to him was gone. As he sat there silent, his hands clasped en his knees, his eyes full of a sad expression of yearning, even the dull perception of the self-satisfied farmer was aware that he was not himself.
"Mr. Everett," Colonel Pickram broke the long silence, "you've been working too hard on the campaign. It's telling on you. I reckon you're mighty glad to-morrow's the last day."
Everett looked up abstractedly.
"Yes—I'm glad to-morrow sees the end of this trip—and yet," he drew himself together responsively, "it has been a wonderful experience. Whenever I get nearer to the people and begin to like them all the more after I know them, and find them liking me—I feel that I have accomplished so much more than merely winning their votes. That is what I love in this work—the winning of friends. And then, Colonel," he glanced almost affectionately at his surroundings, "being in a home like this always gives me such pleasant memories to carry away with me. Still, it makes me very homesick at times." His voice lowered again and the sadness crept back into his eyes. "It takes me back to my old home days. I'd give almost anything to be back there to-day. But this ambition!" He sighed, a half humourous, half sorrowful expression twisting his lips. "It is wonderful what it will make us give up."
The Colonel crossed one leg deliberately over the other, blowing a long line of smoke between them.
"Well, sir, I've often wondered if the game of politics was worth the candle. Here I am, with my two fine lassies, as good girls as you'll ever find in any country, and a plain home, but it's comfortable enough, and plenty of slaves and mules to make a crop and pay my bills. It's all I want and I'm right happy—just as contented as if I owned the world. But then—I'm old and you're young. I look back and you look forward. That's what makes the difference, I reckon."