would not accept as personal, claiming it always for the cause; but as he dropped into the chair Hardy pushed toward him, they all saw how weary he was.
Just at that moment the roar in the street below swelled to a mighty crescendo, and Hardy cried:
"Look!"
They ran to the window. The boys up-stairs who were manipulating the stereopticon, had thrown on the screen an enormous picture of Clayton, the portrait Kittrell had drawn for his cartoon.
"Will you say now there isn't the personal note in it?" Edith asked.
Clayton glanced out the window, across the dark, surging street, at the picture.
"Oh, it's not me they're cheering for," he said; "it's for Kit, here."
"Well, perhaps some of it's for him," Edith admitted loyally.
They were silent, seized irresistibly by the emotion that mastered the mighty crowd in the dark streets below. Edith was strangely moved. Presently she could speak:
"Is there anything sweeter in life than to know that you have done a good thing—and done it well?"
