He put on his hat, bowed again, and went on his way.

He passed slowly along in the spring sunshine, his feet crunching upon the gravel, his straight shadow falling upon the white level between coarse fringes of wire-grass.  Far up the town, at the street’s sudden end, where it was lost in diverging roads, there was visible, as through a film of bluish smoke, the verdigris-green foliage of King’s College.  Nearer at hand the solemn cruciform of the old church was steeped in shade, the high bell-tower dropping a veil of English ivy as it rose against the sky.  Through the rusty iron gate of the graveyard the marble slabs glimmered beneath submerging grasses, long, pale, tremulous like reeds.

The grass-grown walk beside the low brick wall of the churchyard led on to the judge’s own garden, a square enclosure, laid out in straight vegetable rows, marked off by variegated borders of flowering plants—­heartsease, foxglove, and the red-lidded eyes of scarlet poppies.  Beyond the feathery green of the asparagus bed there was a bush of flowering syringa, another at the beginning of the grass-trimmed walk, and yet another brushing the large white pillars of the square front porch—­their slender sprays blown from sun to shade like fluttering streamers of cream-coloured ribbons.  On the other side there were lilacs, stately and leafy and bare of bloom, save for a few ashen-hued bunches lingering late amid the heavy foliage.  At the foot of the garden the wall was hidden in raspberry vines, weighty with ripening fruit.

The judge closed the gate after him and ascended the steps.  It was not until he had crossed the wide hall and opened the door of his study that he heard the patter of bare feet, and turned to find that the boy had followed him.

For an instant he regarded the child blankly; then his hospitality asserted itself, and he waved him courteously into the room.

“Walk in, walk in, and take a seat.  I am at your service.”

He crossed to one of the tall windows, unfastening the heavy inside shutters, from which the white paint was fast peeling away.  As they fell back a breeze filled the room, and the ivory faces of microphylla roses stared across the deep window-seat.  The place was airy as a summer-house and odorous with the essence of roses distilled in the sunshine beyond.  On the high plastered walls, above the book-shelves, rows of bygone Bassetts looked down on their departed possessions—­stately 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.