The Voice of the People | Page 3

and severe in the artificial severity of periwigs and
starched ruffles. They looked down with immobile eyes and the placid
monotony of past fashions, smiling always the same smile, staring
always at the same spot of floor or furniture.
Below them the room was still hallowed by their touch. They asserted
themselves in the quaint curves of the rosewood chairs, in the blue
patterns 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