poor clients freely in the courts, and fought for the lives of free negroes under capital indictments.  He was of the vestry of the aged Episcopal Church, which dominated the social influence of the town, and never omitted attendance on all the services, but with the shadow forever on his brow.  Young Perry went everywhere with his father, and chattered and was active to oblige him, and sometimes by his boyish humor made a little light weaken the strong edges of that paternal shadow; but in a few minutes, looking up into the Judge’s face, he would see that distant, accusing look returned again.

A great desire sprang up in the boy’s heart to be fully loved by his father.  He looked at other boys and saw that they received from their fathers a treatment not more gentle, but more real, as if a deep well of feeling lay in those parents which could send up cool water or tears, either in disagreement or sympathy.  Young Perry had his own horse and his negro, and was the only inhabitant, besides the Judge, of the old black brick, square, colonial house on the brink of the river—­that house whence the light had gone in lurid flight when the young wife, in the bravado of her shame, departed forever.

Judge Whaley was able, with his intellectual sympathy, to observe that his boy was apt and right-minded.

Perry read law precociously, and liked it.  He was the best juvenile debater in the little old college on the slight hill overlooking the town.  His appearance was good, and he had a cheerful nature; yet nowhere, among beautiful girls or riding companions, gunning on the river, crabbing on the bridge, or skating on the meadows, was he half so happy as with his father.

“Well, Perry,” the Judge would say, “how is my demon to-day—­what is he studying now?”

“Studying you, papa; I don’t understand you.”

“The time will come, alas for you!” exclaimed the Judge.

“Do I displease you in any thing I do?”

“No, my son.”

“Do you believe I love you?”

“Yes, I do believe it.  I wish, Perry, it could be returned.”

The son, under the influence of this discouraging confidence, became serious and melancholy.  He would take his gun on his shoulder and wade out into the meadow marshes, as if for game, and there would be seen by other gunners sitting on some old pier or perched on some worm fence, looking straight up at the sky, as if it might answer the riddle of his father’s hate and his own unreciprocated affection.  He would also, on rainy or cold days, when the inmates could not stir abroad, mount his horse and ride to the almshouse beyond the town mill, and, taking a pleasant story or ballad from his pocket, read to the huddled paupers, as well as to the keeper’s family, attracted by his pleasant condescension.  By degrees the boy’s face also took the shadow worn by his father.

“Oh, if they could only love!” remarked the old people around the court-house; “or if they only could admit the real love between them!”