He bowed, and Nicholas left the study and went out of the house.

Rain was still falling, and small pools of water had formed on the palace green.  Straight ahead the lane of maples stretched like a line of half-extinguished fires, and the ground beneath was strewn with wet, red leaves.  The slanting sheets of rain gave a sombre aspect to the town—­to the time-beaten buildings along the unpaved streets and to the commons, where the water stood in grassy hollows.  Beneath the gray sky the scene assumed a spectre-like suggestion of death and decay—­the death of laughter that seemed still to echo faintly from the vanished stones—­the decay of royal charters and of kingly grants.  The very air was reminiscent of a yesterday that was perished; the red, wet leaves painted the brown earth in historic colours.

Nicholas turned the corner at the church and passed on to Jerry Pollard’s store—­a long, low structure fronting on the main street—­and entered by a single step from the sidewalk.  The show windows on either side the entrance displayed a motley selection from the varied assortment of a “general” store—­cheap silks and high-coloured calicos, men’s shirts and women’s shoes, cravats and hairpins, suspenders and corsets.  On the sidewalk near the doorway there was a baby carriage, a saddle, and a collection of farming implements.  As Nicholas crossed the threshold a pink-cheeked girl passed him, her arms filled with bundles, and at the counter an old negro woman was pricing red flannel.

Jerry Pollard, a coarse-featured, full-bearded man of sixty years, was behind the counter.  Nicholas caught his persuasive tones as he leaned over, holding the end of the bolt of flannel in his hands.

“Now, look here, Aunty, you ain’t going to find such a bargain as this anywhere else in town.  Take my oath on that.  Every thread wool and forty-four inches wide.  Only thirty cents a yard, too.  I got it at an auction in Richmond, or I couldn’t let it go at double that price.  How much?  All right.”

The flannel was measured off with skilful manipulations of the yardstick and the scissors, the parcel was handed to the old negro woman, and the change was dropped into the till.  Then Jerry Pollard came from behind the counter and slapped Nicholas upon the shoulder.

“Hello, my boy!” he said.  “So your pa has taken me at my word, and here you are.  Well, Jerry Pollard’s word’s his bond, and he ain’t going back on it.  So, when you feel like it, you can step right in and get to business.  When’ll you begin?  To-day?  No time like the present time’s my motto.”

“To-morrow!” returned Nicholas hastily.  “I’ve got some things to wind up.  I’ll come to-morrow.”

“All right.  I’m your man.  To-morrow at seven sharp?”

Then a purchaser appeared, and Jerry Pollard went forward, his business smile returning to his face.

The purchaser was Mrs. Burwell, and, as Nicholas passed out, she looked up from a pair of waffle-irons she was selecting and nodded pleasantly.