The judge nodded with a smile.  “I know,” he said, “and I also know that you were not born to be a politician.  You will bear witness to it some day.  You should have stuck to law.  But have you seen Dudley?”

The younger man’s face clouded.  When he spoke there was a triumphant zest in his voice.  His deeply-set eyes, which had at times a peculiarly opaque quality, were now charged with light.  The thick red locks flared above his brow.

“He spoke pleasantly to me after the convention,” he answered.  “It was a disappointment to him, I know—­and I am sorry,” he finished in a forced, exclamatory manner, and was silent.

The judge looked at him for a moment before he went on in his even tones.

“His wife was telling me,” he said.  “She was down here a week or two before the convention.  It seems that they are both anxious to return to Richmond to live.  She’s a fine girl, is Eugie.  It was a terrible thing about that brother of hers, and she’s never recovered from it.  I can’t understand how the boy came to commit such a peculiarly stupid forgery.”

A flash of bitterness crossed the other’s face; his voice was hard.

“He has missed his deserts,” he returned harshly.

“Oh, I don’t know, poor fellow,” murmured the judge, flinching from a twinge of gout and settling his foot more carefully upon the stool.  “He has been a fugitive from the State for years and a stranger to his wife and children.  There was always something extraordinary in the fact that he escaped after conviction, and I suppose there was a kind of honour in his not breaking his bail.  At least, that’s the way Eugie seems to regard it—­and it is such a pitiful consolation that we might allow her to retain it.  She tells me that Bernard’s wife has been in destitute circumstances.  It’s a pity! it’s a pity!  I had always hoped that Tom Battle’s boy would turn out well.”

The younger man met his eyes squarely and spoke in an emotionless voice.

“I should like to see him serving his sentence,” he said.

An hour later he left the judge’s house and walked out to his old home.  Since his father’s death the place had undergone repairs and improvements.  The lawn had been cleared off and sown in grass, the fences had been mended, and the house had been painted white.  It could never suggest prosperity, but it had assumed an appearance of comfort.

In the little room next the kitchen he heard his stepmother scolding a small negro servant, and he broke in good-humouredly upon her discourse.

“All right, ma?” he called.

Marthy Burr turned and came towards him.  She had aged but little, and her gaunt figure and sharp face still showed the force of her indomitable spirit.

“I declar’ if ’tain’t you, Nick!” she exclaimed.

He took her in his arms and kissed her perfunctorily, for he was chary of caresses.  Then he lifted Nannie’s baby from the floor and tossed it lightly.