"It is your right to kiss the bride," she said, softly, "and I wish it."
He stooped and reverently touched her forehead. And when he turned away Lucy stood before him, her soft young bosom, neck and face crimson, her eyes dancing, and the sweet little mouth quivering.
"May I kiss you, Governor?" she cried, tremblingly. "You are my hero!"
Her bare arms flashed around his neck, and her warm lips met his. ······· In the mansion on the hill at Albany, the Governor sat that night in his magnificent room alone until the dawn of day, holding in his hand an old battered tintype picture of a laughing girl standing beside a poor young lawyer.
The End
