The Voice of the People | Page 3

upon the willow bowls, and in the choice lavender of the old Wedgwood. Their handiwork was visible in the laborious embroideries of the fire-screen near the empty grate, and the spinet in one unlighted corner still guarded their gay and amiable airs.
"Sit down," said the judge. "I am at your service."
He seated himself before his desk of hand-carved mahogany, pushing aside the papers that littered its baize-covered lid. In the half-gloom of the high-ceiled room his face assumed the look of a portrait in oils, and he seemed to have descended from his allotted square upon the plastered wall, to be but a boldly limned composite likeness of his race, awaiting the last touches and the gilded frame.
"What can I do for you?" he asked again, his tone preserving its unfailing courtesy. He had not made an uncivil remark since the close of the war--a line of conduct resulting less from what he felt to be due to others than from what he believed to be becoming in himself.
The boy shifted on his bare feet. In the old-timed setting of the furniture he was an alien--an anachronism--the intrusion of the hopelessly modern into the helplessly past. His hair made a rich spot in the colourless atmosphere, and it seemed to focus the incoming light from the unshuttered window, leaving the background in denser shadow.
The animation of his features jarred the serenity of the room. His profile showed gnome-like against the nodding heads of the microphylla roses.
"There ain't nothin' in peanut-raisin'," he said suddenly; "I--I'd ruther be a judge."
"My dear boy!" exclaimed the judge, and finished helplessly, "my dear boy--I--well--I--"
They were both silent. The regular droning of the old clock sounded distinctly in the stillness. The perfume of roses, mingling with the musty scent from the furniture, borrowed the quality of musk.
The child was breathing heavily. Suddenly he dug the dirty knuckles of one fist into his eyes.
"Don't cry," began the judge. "Please don't. Perhaps you would like to run out and play with my boy Tom?"
"I warn't cryin'," said the child. "It war a gnat."
His hand left his eyes and returned to his hat--a wide-brimmed harvest hat, with a shoestring tied tightly round the crown.
When the judge spoke again it was with seriousness.
"Nicholas--your name is Nicholas, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"How old are you?"
"Twelve, sir."
"Can you read?"
"Yes, sir."
"Write?"
"Y-e-s, sir."
"Spell?"
The child hesitated. "I--I can spell--some."
"Don't you know it is a serious thing to be a judge?"
"Yes, sir."
"You must be a lawyer first."
"Yes, sir."
"It is hard work."
"Yes, sir."
"And sometimes it's no better than farming for crows."
The boy shook his head. "It's cleaner work, sir."
The judge laughed.
"I'm afraid you are obstinate, Nicholas," he said, and added: "Now, what do you want me to do for you? I can't make you a judge. It took me fifty years to make myself one--a third-rate one at that--"
"I--I'd l-i-k-e to take a bo-b-o-o-k," stammered the boy.
"Dear me!" said the judge irritably, "dear me!"
He frowned, his gaze skimming his well-filled shelves. He regretted suddenly that he had spoken to the child at the court-house. He would never be guilty of such an indiscretion again. Of what could he have been thinking? A book! Why didn't he ask for food--money--his best piece of fluted Royal Worcester?
Then a loud, boyish laugh rang in from the garden, and his face softened suddenly. In the sun-scorched, honest-eyed little figure before him he saw his own boy--the single child of his young wife, who was lying beneath a marble slab in the churchyard. Her face, mild and Madonna-like, glimmered against the pallid rose leaves in the deep window-seat.
He turned hastily away.
"Yes, yes," he answered, "I will lend you one. Read the titles carefully. Don't let the books fall. Never lay them face downwards--and don't turn down the leaves!"
The boy advanced timidly to the shelves between the southern windows. He ran his hands slowly along the lettered backs, his lips moving as he spelled out the names.
"The F-e-d-e-r-a-l-i-s-t," "B-l-a-c-k-s-t-o-n-e-'s C-o-m-m-e-n-t-a-r-i-e-s," "R-e-v-i-s-e-d Sta-tu-tes of the U-ni-ted Sta-tes."
The judge drew up to his desk and looked over his letters. Then he took up his pen and wrote several replies in his fine, flowing handwriting. He had forgotten the boy, when he felt a touch upon his arm.
"What is it?" he asked absently. "Ah, it is you? Yes, let me see. Why! you've got Sir Henry Maine!"
The boy was holding the book in both hands. As the judge laughed he flushed nervously and turned towards the door.
The judge leaned back in his chair, watching the small figure cross the room and disappear into the hall. He saw the tracks of dust which the boy's feet left upon the smooth, bare floor, but he was not thinking of them. Then, as the child went out upon the porch, he started up.
"Nicholas!" he called, "don't turn down the leaves!"

II
A facetious