“The Judge is still asleep,” he said gently.  “And—­he may not wake up in this world.”

Silently, sadly, they went together into that little room where so much of Judge Whipple’s life had been spent.  How little it was!  And how completely they filled it,—­these five people and the big Rothfield covered with the black cloth.  Virginia pressed her father’s arm as they leaned against it, and brushed her eyes.  The Doctor turned the wick of the night-lamp.

What was that upon the sleeper’s face from which they drew back?  A smile?  Yes, and a light.  The divine light which is shed upon those who have lived for others, who have denied themselves the lusts of the flesh, For a long space, perhaps an hour, they stayed, silent save for a low word now and again from the Doctor as he felt the Judge’s heart.  Tableaux from the past floated before Virginia’s eyes.  Of the old days, of the happy days in Locust Street, of the Judge quarrelling with her father, and she and Captain Lige smiling nearby.  And she remembered how sometimes when the controversy was finished the Judge would rub his nose and say: 

“It’s my turn now, Lige.”

Whereupon the Captain would open the piano, and she would play the hymn that he liked best.  It was “Lead, Kindly Light.”

What was it in Silas Whipple’s nature that courted the pain of memories?  What pleasure could it have been all through his illness to look upon this silent and cruel reminder of days gone by forever?  She had heard that Stephen Brice had been with the Judge when he had bid it in.  She wondered that he had allowed it, for they said that he was the only one who had ever been known to break the Judge’s will.  Virginia’s eyes rested on Margaret Brice, who was seated at the head of the bed, smoothing the pillows The strength of Stephen’s features were in hers, but not the ruggedness.  Her features were large, indeed, yet stanch and softened.  The widow, as if feeling Virginia’s look upon her, glanced up from the Judge’s face and smiled at her.  The girl colored with pleasure, and again at the thought which she had had of the likeness between mother and son.

Still the Judge slept on, while they watched.  And at length the thought of Clarence crossed Virginia’s mind.

Why had he not returned?  Perhaps he was in the office without.  Whispering to her father, she stole out on tiptoe.  The office was empty.  Descending to the street, she was unable to gain any news of Clarence from Ned, who was becoming alarmed likewise.

Perplexed and troubled, she climbed the stairs again.  No sound came from the Judge’s room Perhaps Clarence would be back at any moment.  Perhaps her father was in danger.  She sat down to think,—­her elbows on the desk in front of her, her chin in her hand, her eyes at the level of a line of books which stood on end.—­Chitty’s Pleadings, Blackstone, Greenleaf on Evidence.  Absently; as a person whose mind is in trouble, she reached out and took one of them down and opened it.  Across the flyleaf, in a high and bold hand, was written the name, Stephen Atterbury Brice.