Cousin Clifford," said the benevolent judge. "It is possible that you
have never heard of Clifford Pyncheon, and know nothing of his history.
But is Clifford in the parlour? I will just step in and see him. There
is no need to announce me. I know the house, and know my Cousin
Hepzibah, and her brother Clifford likewise. Ah, there is Hepzibah
herself!"

Such was the case. The vibrations of the judge's voice had reached the
old gentlewoman in the parlour, where Clifford sat slumbering in his
chair.

"He cannot see you," said Hepzibah, with quivering voice. "He cannot see
visitors."

"A visitor--do you call me so?" cried the judge. "Then let me be
Clifford's host, and your own likewise. Come at once to my house. I have
often invited you before. Come, and we will labour together to make
Clifford happy."

"Clifford has a home here," she answered.

"Woman," broke out the judge, "what is the meaning of all this? Have you
other resources? Take care, Hepzibah, take care! Clifford is on the
brink of as black a ruin as ever befel him yet!"

From within the parlour sounded a tremulous, wailing voice, indicating
helpless alarm.

"Hepzibah!" cried the voice. "Entreat him not to come in. Go down on
your knees to him. Oh, let him have mercy on me! Mercy!"