While Cornwall prospered financially and established an enviable reputation as a lawyer, fortune did not overlook the Saylor family.

Old man Saylor and his wife were thrifty souls. Though their farm, with its fine colonial dwelling, was one of the best in their end of the county, they had never been given the opportunity to entertain extensively or had occasion to maintain a stylish and expensive establishment.

Mary's four years at Wellesley had cost about four thousand five hundred dollars. This outlay old man Saylor would never have consented to, looking upon it as an absolute waste of good money, except that he gave Mary as much credit for his acquittal of the Spencer killing as he did John. He had the money to spare, having each year cleared more than that sum on his tobacco and speculations in the mule market.

He was a great judge of mules. Bradley Clay said when a mule colt was foaled Saylor could look at it and tell within five pounds of its weight as a four-year-old.

Caleb had been sent to Lexington to school. He remained during the fall term and until after the spring races. Then he returned home, having been expelled because every day he had attended the races and bet on the horses. It was even said that he had procured a jockey to throw a stake race. He announced that he had finally quit school, which he argued was a waste of time, as he intended to practice law and enter politics.He was the owner of a fine saddle mare and a gelding that could trot a mile on the smooth turnpike to a light side-bar buggy in 2:45. Either riding the one or driving the other he attended all the farm auctions; nor did he ever miss a county court day or jury trial at either Richmond or Lancaster. At these trials he first sat back of the railing; then, making friends with the sheriff, the clerk and the younger lawyers, he sat within the reservation for members of the bar. The sheriff and clerk had each offered to appoint him a deputy, but these honors he declined with thanks. When he was twenty-one he was more than six feet tall, weighed a hundred and seventy and, as the sheriff said, was the hustlingest politician in the county. He had been voting for several years.

Though his folks were Republicans, and had been since the Civil War, he deemed it a political mistake to vote that ticket in a Democratic county. At an early age he began voting and working in the Democratic primaries and soon acquired considerable influence with farm laborers and tenant-farmers, the men who usually do the voting in country primaries.

One summer morning (he was not yet twenty-four) he told his father he was going to put one over on old man Chenault and beat him for the Legislature. Colonel Chenault was a native of the county; he had been a lieutenant in the Confederate army, was a rich farmer and, it was generally supposed, would have no opposition for re-election.

Caleb began riding over the county, telling the tenant-farmers and laborers that they should send from a farming community a representative who was a laboring man like themselves, instead of a land-grabbing "Colonel," a man who thought himself better than anybody else. "Has Colonel Chenault or his wife or his daughters ever been in your house? You see them often at the house on the hill. Did he ever speak to or shake hands with you? Yes, when he was a candidate for the Legislature; then he wipes his hand on the seat of his pants."

"That's right; I never thought about that; but who'll we run?"

"You run."

"Oh, I ain't got no education much; I've got to harvest this crop."

"Well, we'll find somebody, even if I have to run to beat the damn aristocrat. You keep still about it, but be sure and come to the convention at the court house next Saturday at two o'clock."

"Oh, I'll do that; so long."

Colonel Chenault, with about twenty of his friends, all of whom were good judges of horses, whiskey and tobacco, and who could tell a pair of deuces from a full hand, came rather late to the convention, not having the least intimation of opposition.

They were surprised to find the court room filled with farmers and men of the hills, from the eastern side of the county. This gathering the Colonel appropriated as evidence of his popularity and as a spontaneous endorsement for his renomination. Obsessed with this thought, he strutted up the aisle like a pouter pigeon.

The temporary chairman of the meeting, Chesley Chilton, who expected to be nominated for sheriff the following year, and who saw that a surprise was about to be sprung on the Colonel, called Caleb to one side and asked the cause of the gathering.

"Oh, you stand by us and we'll help you out next year. I know what you want. Chenault is a dead one and don't know it. We are after his scalp. Here he comes with his collection of fossils; time's up; call the convention to order."

Caleb moved that the temporary be made the permanent chairman; this was done without opposition. Then a secretary and three tellers were chosen—all friends of Caleb's. One of Colonel Chenault's friends complained that all this was a waste of time, as the Colonel had no opposition.

Then the chairman called for nominations and Colonel Chenault was pompously nominated by Colonel Shackelford, who closed his remarks by moving that nominations close and the Colonel be unanimously declared the nominee.

At this suggestion there was a stentorian clamour of noes. In the midst of the uproar Webster James, a candidate for county attorney, who had the promise of Caleb's support and an understanding with him, rose and was recognized by the chairman.

"Mr. Chairman: I have always felt that office should come unsought; should seek the man. I know not how many appreciate the special fitness of the young man whose name I am about to present to the democracy of this county, suggesting his nomination from this the Seventy-second Legislative District. I know he will be surprised when he hears his name, but this great gathering is in his honor and he must regard the call as one to duty and service, which, though it comes unsought, can not be disregarded. The office seeks the man and it is tendered by his fellow-citizens. I have the honor to nominate Hon. Caleb Saylor, of the Paint Lick precinct."

At the mention of Saylor's name and the resounding cheers which greeted it, Colonel Chenault nearly collapsed with surprise and indignation.He turned to Colonel Shackelford, saying: "I am beaten and by that mountain upstart. I would not let him in my front door."

The chairman directed that those favoring Colonel Chenault should gather on the right side of the center aisle, while those favoring Hon. Caleb Saylor should gather on the left, so they might be counted without confusion by the tellers.

This was quickly done. Though it was midsummer, the Chenault men gathered about the court-house stove.

In ten minutes the vote was counted and reported by the tellers. The secretary announced the vote:

Whereupon the Colonel marched out, followed by a mere squad, and, there being no other business, the convention adjourned.

At the following November election Caleb Saylor beat his Republican opponent by more than three hundred majority.

On the first day of January, several days before the Legislature was to convene, he came to Frankfort, desiring to be on hand for all party caucuses. He soon became a familiar figure around the hotel lobby and the corridors of the Capitol.

He made it a point to meet all State officials and every prominent politician, Democrat or Republican, who visited the Capitol. When the lower house was not in session and the Court of Appeals was, he attended its sessions and sat within the space reserved for attorneys. He and Judge Singer, whose judicial ear was attuned to the hum of the gubernatorial bee, became great friends. As a member of the Judiciary Committee he supported a pending bill allowing to each judge of the court a stenographer, and helped through the committee other bills that Judge Singer and the several members of the court favored.

Having procured the necessary certificate of good character, he made application for admission to the bar and was given an examination by Judges Grinder, Singer and Dobson.

Among certain questions propounded by the court and all of which he answered—he always had an answer ready—were the following:

"Mr. Saylor, define the difference between real and personal property."

"If I had a hundred dollars in my pocket, that would be real property; if I had your note for a hundred, that would be personal property."

"When, in a criminal trial, is the defendant declared to have been placed in jeopardy?"

"When he acts like a jeopard."

"Do you deem yourself qualified to render valuable and efficient assistance to a client or to appear as amicus curiae?"

"Yes, sir; especially in the trial of a jury case; but he's had more experience that I have; he's now assistant city attorney of Louisville."

"Where do you get that idea?"

"Judge Dobson, that is what this court says in the case of Ewald Iron Company against The Commonwealth, 140 Ky. 692: 'Clayton B. Blakey and Amicus Curiae, attorneys for the City of Louisville.'"

"What law books have you read?"

"I have read Bryce's American Commonwealth, Cooley's Constitutional Limitations and a work on Constables. I have been too busy getting practical ideas about courts and juries to read much law; with me the main thing is to know the judge and the jury."

His examiners issued a license. Judge Dobson at first demurred, but finally consented when his colleagues explained what efficient service Saylor had rendered as a member of the Judiciary Committee, saying: "I ought not to do it, but his neighbors will soon find out what he knows and leave him alone; he will not have opportunity for much harm."

After the adjournment of the Legislature Caleb moved to Richmond and formed a partnership with Webster Jones, who was a graduate of an eastern law school. Jones prepared their pleadings and attended to all equity practice, while Caleb solicited business and tried their jury cases. The firm obtained its share of the business and Caleb met with more than average success in the handling of his jury cases.

His vanity was tremendous. No one had ever succeeded in satisfying its voracious appetite; it would swallow anything and hungrily plead for more. His father, having started early and knowing what pleased his boy, was his most satisfactory feeder. It was Caleb's practice to drive out to the farm on Saturday afternoon and remain until Monday morning, boasting of his successes in business and politics and listening with satisfaction to his father's unstinted praise.

One Sunday afternoon, about a year after he began practicing law, his father being ill and there being no one about the house who cared to spend the afternoon talking with him about what he had done; he decided to drive over to Colonel Hamilton Clay's and call upon his daughter Rosamond.

He had tried it once or twice before. She had sent word she was not at home, then made it a point as he drove away to show herself at a door or window, so he might know that another call was not expected. But this species of reception did not deter Caleb or penetrate the armor of his conceit. It was impossible for him to believe that Miss Clay, or any other woman, might not find his attentions desirable.

As he drove up before the old Clay homestead, which had been the birthplace of a General, a Governor and an Ambassador, Rosamond, reading near an upper window, saw Mose, the stable man, take his horse. She thought: "Here comes that conceited boor, Caleb Saylor, to see me again; I shall send word I am not at home; * * * but it is dreadfully dull this afternoon, no one else seems to be coming, this book is the worst ever, he might prove entertaining; I'm twenty-nine and can't be so particular; I'll go down and see how the clown talks."

"Well, Mr. Saylor, it has been quite a time since you called. Take this seat," and Rosamond sat down on the other end of a large hair-cloth sofa, where her Aunt Margaret had sat and entertained her Sunday afternoon visitors more than thirty years before.

She was the same queenly, thrilling Rosamond that John Cornwall, ten years before, had loved for a few days. Her beauty was certainly none the less; her maturer form, more charming, was becomingly exhibited in a closely fitting dark blue gown.

After a few commonplace remarks, Caleb Saylor made himself the sole topic of his own conversation. This was the subject nearest his heart and one upon which he elaborated with minuteness and eloquence. As she looked at and listened to him the thought at first unwelcome, entered her mind that here was a man she might have, and without effort, for a husband. And as she listened to his tale of "I done this" and "I done that" and "I will do this and that" she thought how she, a woman of tact and judgment and refinement, might take into her hands this thing and, in a sense, make it plastic clay, and use its elements of life, and power, and energy, and unscrupulousness, and nerve, and egotism, and mountain courage, and almost make a man like her great grandfather.

The experiment was a fitting opportunity for an ambitious and courageous woman who, though she might not find full measure of happiness and love which only comes with respect, yet would meet with adventure, would dare fate and hazard chance with fickle fortune. The prospect to her mind was more pleasing than to be the wife of a gentleman farmer and grow fat and matronly—the other chance just then offered.

For the first time she appraised his virtues and was pleased with his appearance. She wondered if he had sense enough to keep still when silence was golden, and could be taught at opportune times to shift the shower of his eloquent eulogy of himself to an ambitious friend.

Caleb and Rosamond passed two hours of the afternoon together in the parlor of the old mansion undisturbed in their communion by the portraits of her patrician ancestors; the living members of her family walked softly, even when they passed the closed door. When she received they dared not intrude, though they had never felt more curious or been more surprised than at this protracted visit.

As Caleb rose to leave, he took her hand and said: "I have shorely enjoyed my call and am coming again next Sunday afternoon."

"Do, Mr. Saylor! I shall keep the date for you. It is not becoming in neighbors to be so unsociable or see so little of each other," and slowly, after a lingering pressure, she withdrew her hand.

The next Sunday afternoon Caleb called again. He came at two and when he left the spring sun had kissed the fields goodnight. To Rosamond's great surprise, he proposed.

"We are scarcely acquainted, Mr. Saylor. Though we have been neighbors for years, you have denied me the pleasure of your visits. You know a girl can not call upon a man. How do you know that you love me as you should? I have never thought about you as a husband, though I find your company most agreeable. You must give me another week before you press for an answer."

"I will press you now and let you say 'yes' again next week."

And they laughed and the bride-to-be blushed, and with downcast, dreamy eyes, slowly yielding to the increasing pressure of his strong, young arm, unexpectedly found her head nestling in contentment and happiness upon his broad shoulder.

That night she disturbed the peace and quiet of the family circle by announcing that she was to be a June bride and Mr. Saylor was to be the groom.

Her mother rose and kissed her and in tears resumed her seat without speaking. Her father grew red of face and swore that the upstart should never again put foot upon the place, at which she informed him that his remarks were uncalled for and his energy wasted. Her brother told her she was lowering herself and disgracing the family name, but, he supposed, taking advantage of what she must consider a last opportunity. To which she replied: "I did not expect such remarks from you, Bradley, as three years ago you asked Mary Saylor to be Mrs. Bradley Clay, an honor she declined with thanks." Nothing more was said in opposition to the marriage.

During April and May, Rosamond and her mother were busy preparing for the wedding, which occurred on the 5th of June and was attended by the aristocracy of four counties. There were a few guests from even a greater distance. Judge Singer and his wife were present, as was a former Governor; Dorothy and her husband came on from Pittsburgh, Mrs. Neal from Harlan, and Mary from Wellesley; but John Cornwall was not invited.

Two years after his marriage Caleb was made a member of the Democratic State Central Committee and a member of the Campaign Committee from his district in a close race for Governor. Taking the advice of his wife, which was becoming a habit, he made a liberal contribution, sending it directly to the candidate, and rendered very efficient and valuable service. He made two very good speeches, which were written by his wife, who also drilled him in preparation for their delivery. She long since had spread the information throughout the State that his mountain idioms and ungrammatical lapses were affectations to catch the uneducated voter.

The Governor, shortly after qualification, appointed Saylor as a Colonel on his staff, and he and his wife were entertained at the mansion. His wife was named as among those to receive at a reception given by the Governor to the newly inducted State officials and the General Assembly.

About this time a very wealthy man who owned a farm near Lexington died. The State became involved in litigation, seeking to recover inheritance and ad valorem taxes from his estate, claiming he had died a resident of Kentucky. Similar litigation was pending in the State of New York.

Upon the recommendation of the Attorney General that special counsel was needed, the Governor appointed Colonel Caleb Saylor and ex-Chief Justice Dobson to represent the State. Without a great deal of trouble they collected eight hundred thousand dollars and were paid a fee of fifty thousand dollars for their services, thirty-five thousand of which by contract went to Colonel Saylor as senior counsel.

He and his wife had spent a pleasant week in New York while he made his investigation and compromised the State's claim. The day before they returned home they visited Tiffany's. Mrs. Saylor's love and respect for her husband were in no sense lessened when he invested three thousand dollars in two rings, which, though they were flawless gems, could scarcely be said to adorn his wife's tapering fingers and patrician hands.

His friends noticed that now, instead of singing his own praises, he could never say too much in laudation of his wife; and she clung to his arm and whispered sweet speeches into his ear as a bride of eighteen might do.

It was noticeable that the Colonel had grown to be adept at showering compliments upon his superiors and always had pretty speeches for their wives. On county court day he went out to the cattle market and shook hands all round with the farmers.

In the spring of 1899, about seven years before Colonel Saylor's marriage, Cornwall received an invitation to the commencement exercises of Wellesley and noticed that Mary was named as salutatorian of her class.

He sent her a set of "The American Poets," gilt-edged in white leather bindings, and received a note of thanks and an invitation to visit the Saylor home any time he found it convenient during the summer.

Mary came home the first of June and for a while enjoyed undisturbed the quiet of the old farmhouse. The neighbors, including Bradley and Rosamond Clay, were just beginning to call upon her and ask her to their entertainments when she received and accepted an offer as assistant teacher of mathematics at Wellesley. The first of September she returned to the college, stopping for several days in Washington and New York. The following summer she spent traveling with several girl graduates and the teacher of French in England, France and Italy. She sent Cornwall a remarkably fine photograph of herself taken at Rome.

This he framed and kept upon his dresser. His mother, seeing and admiring the picture, asked;—"Who is the young lady, John?"

"I do not know, but as soon as I can discover her name and domicile, I propose to propose."

"It certainly is time; you are nearly thirty. I hope to see you married before I go, John."

"Mother, I know no argument against that ancient and hallowed institution, and would not advise a friend against taking such a step, even at the present and ever-increasing high cost of living. I do not use such language. Since I first put on long trousers I have hunted high and low for a wife, and with a persistence equalling that of a young penniless widow, but without success. Just when it seems that within a few days I shall be the happy recipient of the congratulations of my friends who in their hearts feel certain I am about to fall victim to the wiles of a designing female person, cruel fate steps in and with peremptory halting gesture and commanding voice has always said;—thus far, but no father. You will doubtless live to see me at fifty struggle through a dance with the daughter of my old sweetheart while the son of another breaks us; and I, broken of wind and mopping my bald head, shall retire to a corner and rest while conversing with the hostess' grandmother. Seriously, mother, I intend to marry just as soon as a girl as good and sweet as you are will have me. I am beginning to think it will be Mary, or my stenographer. I have not seen Mary for more than five years; it is nearly a year since I heard from her. In some ways the photograph of that beautiful, fashionably-gowned girl reminds me of her. Do you suppose that's Mary? But she surely is not in Rome!—How do you like this, mother?" And John, whanging an accompaniment on the piano, sang this Arabian song:

"Goodbye, I must go to the office; kiss me, mother!"

"Well, good morning, Miss Rachael, junior partner; how is the firm business coming on? What must we take up first? You have been with me more than five years and it's always a smile and a pleasant word. You are twenty-five and not married. Some one of your race and faith is very slow finding out what a fine wife you would make. My mother was after me today, saying; 'John, you must get married; you are nearly thirty;' and I said; 'mother, if I do, I guess it will be Mary, or Rachael.' You don't know Mary, and I doubt if I would if I met her; I have not seen her for five years."

"Mr. Cornwall, there's lots of mail to answer and in an hour you are to take depositions in the Asher case."

"Rachael you are too practical. Why don't you let me love you. I am convinced that with just a little encouragement I would propose. It's time we both were married. We have never had a quarrel in all these years. I am worth twenty-five thousand and have a good business. You can have everything you want. Why not, Rachael?""That's just why I am practical; to keep my head and my place; I like the work.—Yes, you can hold my hand if you wish and kiss me just once. But if you ever try it again, I must return to Louisville. Were you of my race and faith, you would not have to ask me twice. I hope when I do marry the man will be much like you; but he must be a Jew. We are a scattered people, without flag or country; yet a proud nation, seeking no alliances with other people. Your religion, founded on my faith, holds mine in both reverence and abhorrence. We have different sacred and fast days. I must eat other foods. We follow different customs in rearing our children. If I should marry you I must become a stranger to my own people and will be despised by yours. I will bring neither riches nor position and, like Ruth of old, must turn my back upon my own people. Thy people are not my people. For this time I will call you John, and again say it cannot be. I am crying; Oh! please! please let's work!"