ing the visit to his mother, Warwick visited the
old judge's office. The judge was not in, but the door stood open, and
Warwick entered to await his return. There had been fewer changes in
the office, where he had spent many, many hours, than in the town
itself. The dust was a little thicker, the papers in the pigeon-holes
of the walnut desk were a little yellower, the cobwebs in the corners a
little more aggressive. The flies droned as drowsily and the murmur of
the brook below was just as audible. Warwick stood at the rear window
and looked out over a familiar view. Directly across the creek, on the
low ground beyond, might be seen the dilapidated stone foundation of
the house where once had lived Flora Macdonald, the Jacobite refugee,
the most romantic character of North Carolina history. Old Judge
Straight had had a tree cut away from the creek-side opposite his
window, so that this historic ruin might be visible from his office;
for the judge could trace the ties of blood that connected him
collaterally with this famous personage. His pamphlet on Flora
Macdonald, printed for private circulation, was highly prized by those
of his friends who were fortunate enough to obtain a copy. To the left
of the window a placid mill-pond spread its wide expanse, and to the
right the creek disappeared under a canopy of overhanging trees.

A footstep sounded in the doorway, and Warwick, turning, faced the old
judge. Time had left greater marks upon the lawyer than upon his
office. His hair was whiter, his stoop more pronounced; when he spoke
to Warwick, his voice had some of the shrillness of old age; and in his
hand, upon which the veins stood out prominently, a decided tremor was
perceptible.

"Good-morning, Judge Straight," said the young man, removing his hat
with the graceful Southern deference of the young for the old.

"Good-morning, sir," replied the judge with equal courtesy.

"You don't remember me, I imagine," suggested Warwick.

"Your face seems familiar," returned the judge cautiously, "but I
cannot for the moment recall your name. I shall be glad to have you
refresh my memory."

"I was John Walden, sir, when you knew me."

The judge's face still gave no answering light of recognition.

"Your old office-boy," continued the younger man.

"Ah, indeed, so you were!" rejoined the judge warmly, extending his
hand with great cordiality, and inspecting Warwick more closely through
his spectacles. "Let me s