A clerk brought in the file.  The Commissioner seated himself and wrote upon it in red ink.  Then he rose to his feet and stood for a while looking straight out of the window.  The Land Office capped the summit of a bold hill.  The eyes of the Commissioner passed over the roofs of many houses set in a packing of deep green, the whole checkered by strips of blinding white streets.  The horizon, where his gaze was focussed, swelled to a fair wooded eminence flecked with faint dots of shining white.  There was the cemetery, where lay many who were forgotten, and a few who had not lived in vain.  And one lay there, occupying very small space, whose childish heart had been large enough to desire, while near its last beats, good to others.  The Commissioner’s lips moved slightly as he whispered to himself:  “It was her last will and testament, and I have neglected it so long!”

The big brown cigars of Hamlin and Avery were fireless, but they still gripped them between their teeth and waited, while they marvelled at the absent expression upon the Commissioner’s face.

By and by he spoke suddenly and promptly.

“Gentlemen, I have just indorsed the Elias Denny survey for patenting.  This office will not regard your location upon a part of it as legal.”  He paused a moment, and then, extending his hand as those dear old-time ones used to do in debate, he enunciated the spirit of that Ruling that subsequently drove the land-sharks to the wall, and placed the seal of peace and security over the doors of ten thousand homes.

“And, furthermore,” he continued, with a clear, soft light upon his face, “it may interest you to know that from this time on this office will consider that when a survey of land made by virtue of a certificate granted by this state to the men who wrested it from the wilderness and the savage—­made in good faith, settled in good faith, and left in good faith to their children or innocent purchasers—­when such a survey, although overrunning its complement, shall call for any natural object visible to the eye of man, to that object it shall hold, and be good and valid.  And the children of this state shall lie down to sleep at night, and rumours of disturbers of title shall not disquiet them.  For,” concluded the Commissioner, “of such is the Kingdom of Heaven.”

In the silence that followed, a laugh floated up from the patent-room below.  The man who carried down the Denny file was exhibiting it among the clerks.

“Look here,” he said, delightedly, “the old man has forgotten his name.  He’s written ‘Patent to original grantee,’ and signed it ‘Georgia Summerfield, Comr."’

The speech of the Commissioner rebounded lightly from the impregnable Hamlin and Avery.  They smiled, rose gracefully, spoke of the baseball team, and argued feelingly that quite a perceptible breeze had arisen from the east.  They lit fresh fat brown cigars, and drifted courteously away.  But later they made another tiger-spring for their quarry in the courts.  But the courts, according to reports in the papers, “coolly roasted them” (a remarkable performance, suggestive of liquid-air didoes), and sustained the Commissioner’s Ruling.