His mother, knitting before the fire in her own room, greeted him with her usual quiet smile of welcome.  He tried to give her a humorous account of his catechism of the morning, but failed.

“I am quite sure that he doesn’t like me,” said Stephen.

His mother continued to smile.

“If he did, he would not show it,” she answered.

“I can feel it,” said Stephen, dejectedly.

“The Judge was here this afternoon,” said his mother.

“What?” cried Stephen.  “Again this week?  They say that he never calls in the daytime, and rarely in the evening.  What did he say?”

“He said that some of this Boston nonsense must be gotten out of you,” answered Mrs. Brice, laughing.  “He said that you were too stiff.  That you needed to rub against the plain men who were building up the West.  Who were making a vast world-power of the original little confederation of thirteen states.  And Stephen,” she added more earnestly, “I am not sure but what he is right.”

Then Stephen laughed.  And for a long time he sat staring into the fire.

“What else did he say?” he asked, after a while.

“He told me about a little house which we might rent very cheaply.  Too cheaply, it seems.  The house is on this street, next door to Mr. Brinsmade, to whom it belongs.  And Mr. Whipple brought the key, that we might inspect it to-morrow.”

“But a servant,” objected Stephen, “I suppose that we must have a servant.”

His mother’s voice fell.

“That poor girl whom you freed is here to see me every day.  Old Nancy does washing.  But Hester has no work and she is a burden to Judge Whipple.  Oh, no,” she continued, in response to Stephen’s glance, “the Judge did not mention that, but I think he had it in mind that Nester might come.  And I am sure that she would.”

Sunday dawned brightly.  After church Mrs. Brice and Stephen walked down Olive Street, and stood looking at a tiny house wedged in between, two large ones with scrolled fronts.  Sad memories of Beacon Street filled them both as they gazed, but they said nothing of this to each other.  As Stephen put his hand on the latch of the little iron gate, a gentleman came out of the larger house next door.  He was past the middle age, somewhat scrupulously dressed in the old fashion, in swallowtail coat and black stock.  Benevolence was in the generous mouth, in the large nose that looked like Washington’s, and benevolence fairly sparkled in the blue eyes.  He smiled at them as though he had known them always, and the world seemed brighter that very instant.  They smiled in return, whereupon the gentleman lifted his hat.  And the kindliness and the courtliness of that bow made them very happy.  “Did you wish to look at the house, madam?” he asked “Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Brice.

“Allow me to open it for you,” he said, graciously taking the key from her.  “I fear that you will find it inconvenient and incommodious, ma’am.  I should be fortunate, indeed, to get a good tenant.”