The Reaping by Mary Imlay Taylor

FOX sat at his writing-table turning over and signing some papers left there in methodical order by his stenographer. He was going out of town at last, and the thought of escape from the oppression of the last few weeks was like a breath of sweet fresh air from the hills where he was born. But even with the prospect of this reprieve he did his work mechanically, glancing up occasionally at the waving tree-tops which were on a level with his open windows and limited his view.

Sandy lay at his feet waiting impatiently for his daily run and in sympathy with his master's mood. Fox spoke to him once or twice as he paused in his work, and once he bent down and caressed the faithful creature's head; there was comfort in the sense of dumb companionship. Yet at this very moment of depression he was aware that he had achieved a signal political triumph. His last speech before the closing of Congress had resounded from one end of the country to the other, and been caught up and echoed abroad. He had healed a breach in the party, plucked victory from defeat, and his name was on every lip.