“A change!” he said slowly, holding himself in hand.  “Yes, I—­should—­like a change.”

The judge sipped his julep, breathing with enjoyment the strong fragrance of the mint.

“I have just seen my friend, Professor Hartwell, of the University,” he said, “and he mentioned to me that in the work of compiling his law-book he found great need of a secretary.  It at once occurred to me that it was a suitable opening for you, and I ventured to suggest as much to him—­”

He paused an instant, gazing thoughtfully into his glass.

“And he?” urged Nicholas hurriedly.

“He would like some correspondence with you, I believe; but, if the prospect pleases you, and you would care to undertake the work—­”

“Care?” gasped the younger man passionately; “care!  Why I—­I’d sell my soul for the chance.”

The judge laughed softly.

“Such extreme measures are unnecessary, I think.  No doubt it can be arranged.  I understand from your father that he has tided over his last failures.”

But Nicholas did not hear him; the words of release were ringing in his ears.

* * * * *

The year that Nicholas Burr “worked” his way to a degree at the University of the State Tom Bassett returned to Kingsborough and took up that portion of the judge’s practice which he termed “local”; and his fellow citizens, whose daily existence was proof of their belief in hereditary virtues, brought their legal difficulties to his door.  He was a stout, flaxen-haired young fellow, with broad shoulders and honest, light-blue eyes, holding an habitual shade of perplexity.  People said of him that his heart outran his head, but they loved him not the less for this—­perhaps the more.

Upon his return to Kingsborough he applied himself conscientiously to his cases, paid a series of social calls, and fell over head and ears in love with Sally Burwell.

“There are two things which every respectable young man in Kingsborough goes through with,” remarked the rector’s wife as she sat at breakfast with her husband.  “He becomes confirmed and he goes mad about Sally Burwell.  For my part it does not surprise me.  She’s not pretty, but no man has ever found it out, and no man ever will.  Did you notice that muslin she had on in church last Sunday—­all frills and tucks—­”

“My mind was upon my sermon, dear,” murmured the rector apologetically.

“But we’ve eyes as well as minds, and those of every man in the congregation were on that dress of Sally’s.”

The rector meekly stirred his coffee.

“I have no doubt of it,” he answered.  “But what do you think of Tom’s chances, my dear?”

“They aren’t worth a candle,” returned his wife with an emphasis which settled the question in the rector’s mind.

Within a month Tom’s chances were the topic of Kingsborough.  They were discussed at the post-office, at sewing societies, at church festivals.  Not a soul in the congregation but knew the number of times he had accompanied her to evening services; not an inhabitant of the town but was aware of the hour and the afternoon upon which they had last walked through Lover’s Lane.