“He is coming now,” said Becky, who sat by the window.  “Look, Aunt Claudia.”

Tramping up the hail towards the second gate was a tall figure in khaki.  Resting like a rose-petal on one shoulder was a mite of a child in pink rompers.

“He is bringing Fiddle with him,” Becky gasped.  “Oh, Aunt Claudia, he is bringing Fiddle.”

Aunt Claudia rose and looked out——­ “Well,” she said, “let her come.  She’s his child.  If Father turns them out, I’ll go with them.”

Truxton saw them at the window and waved.  “Shall we go down?” Becky said.

“No—­wait a minute.  Father’s in the hall.”  Aunt Claudia stood tensely in the middle of the room.  “Becky, listen over the stair rail to what they are saying.”

“But——­”

“Go on,” Aunt Claudia insisted; “there are times when—­one breaks the rules, Becky.  I’ve got to know what they are saying——­”

The voices floated up.  Truxton’s a lilting tenor——­

“Are you going to forgive us, Grandfather?”

“I am not the grandfather of Mary Flippin’s child,” the Judge spoke evidently without heat.

“You are the grandfather of Fidelity Branch Beaufort,” said Truxton coolly; “you can’t get away from that——­”

“The neighborhood calls her Fiddle Flippin,” the Judge reminded him.

“What’s in a name?” said Truxton, and swung his baby high in the air.  “Do you love your daddy, Fiddle-dee-dee?”

“’Ess,” said Fiddle, having accepted him at once on the strength of sweet chocolate, and an adorable doll.

“What are they saying?” whispered Aunt Claudia, still tense in the middle of the room.

“Hush,” Becky waved a warning hand.

“There is,” said the Judge, in a declamatory manner, “everything in a name.  The Bannisters of Huntersfield, the Paines of King’s Crest, the Randolphs of Cloverdale, do you think these things don’t count, Truxton?”

“I think there’s a lot of rot in it,” said young Beaufort, “when we were fighting for democracy over there——­”

The shot told.  “Democracy has nothing to do with it——­”

“Democracy,” said Truxton, “has a great deal to do with it.  The days of kings and queens are dead, they have married each other for generations and have produced offspring like—­William of Germany.  Class assumptions of superiority are withered branches on the tree of civilization.  Mary is as good as I am any day.”

“You wrote things like this,” said the Judge, interested in spite of himself, and loving argument.

“I wrote them because I believed them.  I am ready to apologize for not telling you of my marriage before this.  I have no apologies to make for my wife——­

“I have no apologies to make for my wife,” Truxton repeated.  “I fought for democratic ideals.  I am practising them.  Mary is a lady.  You must admit that, Grandfather.”

“I do admit it,” said the Judge slowly, “in the sense that you mean it.  But in the county sense?  Do you think the Merriweathers will ask her to their ball?  Do you think Bob Flippin will dine with my friends to-night?”