Free America has given the race a new peasant woman. Born among the
lowliest of her kind, she walks earth's way with her feet in the dust,
her head among the stars.
This one died young in the cabin beside the deep woods, but not before
her hand had kindled a fire of divine discontent in the soul of her son
that only God could extinguish.
_The Story_
CHAPTER I
THE MAN OF THE HOUR
"It's positively uncanny----"
Betty Winter paused on the top step of the Capitol and gazed over the
great silent crowd with a shiver.
"The silence--yes," Ned Vaughan answered slowly. "I wondered if you had
felt it, too."
"It's more like a funeral than an Inauguration."
The young reporter smiled:
"If you believe General Scott there may be several funerals in
Washington before the day's work is done."
"And you _don't_ believe him?" the girl asked seriously.
"Nonsense! All this feverish preparation for violence----"
Betty laughed:
"I'm afraid you're not a good judge of the needs of the incoming
administration. As an avowed Secessionist--you're hardly in their
confidence."
"Thank God, I'm not."
"What are those horses doing over there by the trees?"
"Masked battery of artillery."
"Don't be silly!"
"It's true. Old Scott's going to save the Capital on Inauguration Day
any how! The Avenue's lined with soldiers--sharpshooters posted in the
windows along the whole route of the Inaugural procession, a company of
troops in each end of the Capitol.
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