The lull by Saaki, read by Mike Bennett.

I've asked Latimus Springfield to spend Sunday with us and stop the night, announced

Mrs. DeMotte at the breakfast table.

I thought he was in the throes of an election, remarked her husband.

Exactly, the poll is on Wednesday and the poor man will have worked himself to a shadow by

that time. Imagine what electioneering must be like in this awful soaking rain, going

along slushy country roads and speaking to damp audiences in drafty schoolrooms day after day for a fortnight.

He'll have to put in an appearance at some place of worship on Sunday morning,

and he can come to us immediately afterwards and have a thorough respite from everything connected with politics.

I won't let him even think of them. I've had the picture of Cromwell dissolving the long parliament

taken down from the staircase and even the portrait of Lord Rosebury's larders removed

from the smoking room and Vera added Mrs. DeMart turning to her 16 year old niece.

Be careful what color ribbon you wear in your hair,

not blue or yellow on any account.

Those are the rival party colours,

and Emerald Green or Orange would be almost as bad with this

home rule business to the fore.

On state occasions, I always wear a black ribbon in my hair," said Vera with crushing dignity.

Lattimus Springfield was a rather cheerless, oldish young man who went into politics somewhat in the spirit in which other people might go into half-mourning.

Without being an enthusiast, however, he was a fairly strenuous plodder, and Mrs. DeMott had been reasonably near the mark in asserting that

he was working at high pressure over this election.

The Restwell lull, which his hostess enforced on him was decidedly welcome, and yet the nervous excitement

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