Until I have received a copy, I withhold my judgment.
"JOHN HARKLESS." The morrow's issue--that fateful print on which depended John Harkless's opinion of H.Fisbee's integrity--contained an editorial addressed to the delegates of the convention, warning them to act for the vital interest of the community, and declaring that the opportunity to be given them in the present convention was a rare one, a singular piece of good fortune indeed; they were to have the chance to vote for a man who had won the love and respect of every person in the district--one who had suffered for his championship of righteousness--one whom even his few political enemies confessed they held in personal affection and esteem--one who had been the inspiration of a new era--one whose life had been helpfulness, whose hand had reached out to every struggler and unfortunate--a man who had met and faced danger for the sake of others--one who lived under a threat for years, and who had been almost overborne in the fulfilment of that threat, but who would live to see the sun shine on his triumph, the tribute the convention would bring him as a gift from a community that loved him.

His name needed not to be told; it was on every lip that morning, and in every heart.
Tom was eagerly watching his companion as he read.

Harkless fell back on the pillows with a drawn face, and for a moment he laid his thin hand over his eyes in a gesture of intense pain.
"What is it ?" Meredith said quickly.
"Give me the pad, please." "What is it, boy ?" The other's teeth snapped together.
"What is it ?" he cried.

"What is it?
It's treachery, and the worst I ever knew.

Not a word of the accusation I demanded--lying _praises_ instead! Read that editorial--there, _there_!" He struck the page with the back of his hand, and threw the paper to Meredith.