Widow passed her hand over her brow.  It was a space before she answered him.

“My son,” she said, let us never speak of this again: 

“It was your father’s dearest wish that you should become a lawyer and —­and his wishes are sacred God will take care of us.”

She rose and kissed him good-night.

“Remember, my dear, when you go to Judge Whipple in the morning, remember his kindness, and—.”

“And keep my temper.  I shall, mother.”

A while later he stole gently back into her room again.  She was on her knees by the walnut bedstead.

At nine the next manning Stephen left Miss Crane’s, girded for the struggle with the redoubtable Silas Whipple.  He was not afraid, but a poor young man as an applicant to a notorious dragon is not likely to be bandied with velvet, even though the animal had been a friend of his father.  Dragons as a rule have had a hard rime in their youths, and believe in others having a hard time.

To a young man, who as his father’s heir in Boston had been the subject of marked consideration by his elders, the situation was keenly distasteful.  But it had to be gone through.  So presently, after inquiry, he came to the open square where the new Court House stood, the dome of which was indicated by a mass of staging, and one wing still to be completed.  Across from the building, on Market Street, and in the middle of the block, what had once been a golden hand pointed up a narrow dusty stairway.

Here was a sign, “Law office of Silas Whipple.”

Stephen climbed the stairs, and arrived at a ground glass door, on which the sign was repeated.  Behind that door was the future:  so he opened it fearfully, with an impulse to throw his arm above his head.  But he was struck dumb on beholding, instead of a dragon, a good-natured young man who smiled a broad welcome.  The reaction was as great as though one entered a dragon’s den, armed to the teeth, to find a St. Bernard doing the honors.

Stephen’s heart went out to this young man,—­after that organ had jumped back into its place.  This keeper of the dragon looked the part.  Even the long black coat which custom then decreed could not hide the bone and sinew under it.  The young man had a broad forehead, placid Dresden-blue eyes, flaxen hair, and the German coloring.  Across one of his high cheek-bones was a great jagged scar which seemed to add distinction to his appearance.  That caught Stephen’s eye, and held it.  He wondered whether it were the result of an encounter with the Judge.

“You wish to see Mr. Whipple?” he asked, in the accents of an educated German.

“Yes,” said Stephen, “if he isn’t busy.”

“He is out,” said the other, with just a suspicion of a ‘d’ in the word.  “You know he is much occupied now, fighting election frauds.  You read the papers?”

“I am a stranger here,” said Stephen.

“Ach!” exclaimed the German, “now I know you, Mr. Brice.  The young one from Boston the Judge spoke of.  But you did not tell him of your arrival.”