clouds were flying. The governor walked down the driveway to the big iron gates at Fourth Street, whose watered surface as far as he could see, wavered under the electric lights at the crossings. The governor turned at Jackson Street and walked down the sleeping little avenue toward Second Street. Before a low brown house trickling its eaves behind two sentinel cedars, he halted. He went up the moist brick walk, and pulled the white bell-knob. The bell jangled harshly upon the sleeping stillness. The jangling trembled away. He rang again. There was a reluctant stir within and a voice, a scared woman's voice, said:
"Who's there?"
"The governor," he responded. "Is Mr. Mendenhall at home?"
The woman slid back bolts and opened the door circumspectly. She thrust out a towsled head and shoulders wrapped in a shawl. The governor heard a baby's cry. The woman's teeth chattered with nervousness and the cold.
"No, sir; he hasn't got in yet."
The governor thanked her and turned away. The woman opened the door wide and watched him as he
