"Perhaps," was the laughing reply.
"Good. It suits me better. I've had the move in mind. I can do more effective work in the South for the next two years. Your decision is fate. I'll go at once."
The doctor was taken aback.
"Come now," he said, persuasively. "Let a disinterested Englishman give you some advice. You've never taken any before. I give it as medicine, and I won't put it on your bill. Slow down on politics. Your recent defeat should teach you a lesson in conservatism."
The old Commoner's powerful mouth became rigid, and the lower lip bulged:
"Conservatism—fossil putrefaction!"
"But defeat?"
"Defeat?" cried the old man. "Who said I was defeated? The South lies in ashes at my feet—the very names of her proud states blotted from history. The Supreme Court awaits my nod. True, there's a man boarding in the White House, and I vote to pay his bills; but the page who answers my beck and call has more power. Every measure on which I've set my heart is law, save one—my Confiscation Act—and this but waits the fulness of time."
The doctor, who was walking back and forth with his hands folded behind him, paused and said:
"I marvel that a man of your personal integrity could conceive such a measure; you, who refused to accept the legal release of your debts until the last farthing was paid—you, whose cruelty of the lip is hideous, and yet beneath it so gentle a personality, I've seen the pages in
