“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—­”