It was all there as it had been in his youth—­the same and yet not the same.  The old fields were tilled, the old lands ran waste in broomsedge, but he himself had left his boyhood far behind—­it was his own vision that was altered, not the face of nature.  The commons were not so wide as he had thought them, the hills not so high, the hollows not so deep—­even the blue horizon had drawn a closer circle.

A man on his way to the water-cooler stopped abruptly at his side.  “Well, I declar, if ’tain’t the governor!”

Nicholas looked up, and recognising Jerry Pollard, shook his outstretched hand.  “When did you leave Kingsborough?” he inquired.

“Oh, I jest ran up this morning to lay in a stock of winter goods.  Trade’s thriving this year, and you have to hustle if you want to keep up with the tastes of yo’ customers.  Times have changed since I had you in my sto’.”

“I dare say.  I am glad to hear that you are doing well.  Was the judge taken ill before you left Kingsborough?”

“The judge?  Is he sick?  I ain’t heard nothin’ ’bout it.  It wa’n’t more’n a week ago that I told him he was lookin’ as young as he did befo’ the war.  It ain’t often a man can keep his youth like that but his Caesar is just such another.  Caesar was an old man as far back as I remember, and, bless you, he’s spryer than I am this minute.  He’ll live to be a hundred and die of an accident.”

“That’s good,” said the governor with rising interest.  “Kingsborough’s a fine place to grow old in.  Did you bring any news up with you?”

“Well, I reckon not.  Things were pretty lively down there last night, but they’d quieted down this morning.  They brought a man over from Hagersville, you know, and befo’ I shut up sto’ last evening Jim Brown came to town, talkin’ mighty big ‘bout stringin’ up the fellow.  Jim always did talk, though, so nobody thought much of it.  He likes to get his mouth in, but he’s right particular ’bout his hand.  The sheriff said he warn’t lookin’ for trouble.”

“I’m glad it’s over,” said the governor.  The train was nearing Kingsborough, and as it stopped he rose and followed Jerry Pollard to the station.

There was no one he knew in sight, and, with his bag in his hand, he walked rapidly to the judge’s house.  His anxiety had caused him to quicken his pace, but when he had opened the gate and ascended the steps he hesitated before entering the hall, and his breath came shortly.  Until that instant he had not realised the strength of the tie that bound him to the judge.

The hall was dim and cool, as it had been that May afternoon when his feet had left tracks of dust on the shining floor.  Straight ahead he saw the garden, lying graceless and deserted, with the unkemptness of extreme old age.  A sharp breeze blew from door to door, and the dried grasses on the wall stirred with a sound like that of the wind among a bed of rushes.