you let me talk with Tom? In half an hour--I'll
go. You and Lila slip over to mother's for half an hour--come back at
half past twelve. I'll tell him where you are."

The mother and child had disappeared around the corner of the house when
the click of Van Dorn's bicycle on the curbing told the Doctor that the
young man was upon the walk. The package from the capital still lay
beside the porch column. The Doctor did not lift his eyes from it as the
younger man came hurrying up the steps. He was flushed, bright-eyed, a
little out of breath, and his black wing of hair was damp. On the top
step, he looked up and saw the Doctor.

"It's all right, Tom--I understand things." The Doctor's eyes turned to
the parcel on the floor between them.

The Doctor's voice was soft; his manner was gentle, and he lifted his
blue, inquiring eyes into the young Judge's restless black ones. Dr.
Nesbit put a fatherly hand on the young man's arm, and said: "Shall we
sit down, Tom, and take stock of things and see where we stand? Wouldn't
that be a good idea?"

They sat down and the younger man eyed the package, turned it over,
looked at the address nervously, pulled at his mustache as he sank back,
while the elder man was saying: "I believe I understand you, Tom--better
than any one else in the world understands you. I believe you have not a
better friend on earth than I right at this minute."

The Judge turned around and said in a disturbed voice, "I am sure that's
the God's truth, Doctor Jim." Then after a sigh he added, "And this is
what I've done to you!"

"And will keep right on doing to me as long as you live," piped the
elder man, twitching his mouth and nose contemptuously.

"As long as I live, I fancy," repeated the other. In the pause the young
man put his hands to his hips and his chin on his breast as he slouched
down in the chair and asked: "Where's Laura?"

"Over at her mother's," replied the father. "Nobody will interrupt
us--and so I thought we could get down to grass roots and talk this
thing out."

The Judge crossed his handsome ankles and sat looking at his trim toes.

"I suppose that idea is as good as any." He put one long, lean, hairy
hand on the short, fat knee beside him and said: "The whole trouble with
our Protestant religion is that we have no confessor. So some of us talk
to our lawyers, and some of us talk to our doctors, and in extreme
unction we talk to our newspapers."

He grinned miserably, and went