a shelf containing the few law books that were the monuments of his
Harvard law course, and his summer reading. On the following Monday,
when Peter faced his office door he felt a glow of satisfaction at
seeing in very black letters on the very newly scrubbed glass the sign
of:

PETER STIRLING

ATTORNEY AND COUNSELLOR-AT-LAW.

He had come to his office early, not merely because at his boarding
place they breakfasted betimes, but because he believed that early hours
were one way of winning success. He was a little puzzled what to do with
himself. He sat down at his desk and thrummed it for a minute. Then he
rose, and spread his books more along the shelf, so as to leave little
spaces between them, thinking that he could make them look more imposing
thereby. After that he took down a book--somebody "On Torts,"--and dug
into it. In the Harvard course, he had had two hours a week of this
book, but Peter worked over it for nearly three hours. Then he took
paper, and in a very clear, beautifully neat hand, made an abstract of
what he had read. Then he compared his abstract with the book. Returning
the book to the shelf, very much pleased with the accuracy of his
memory, he looked at his watch. It was but half-past eleven. Peter sat
down at his desk. "Would all the days go like this?" he asked himself.
He had got through the first week by his room and office-seeking and
furnishing. But now? He could not read law for more than four hours a
day, and get anything from it. What was to be done with the rest of the
time? What could he do to keep himself from thinking of--from thinking?
He looked out of his one window, over the dreary stretch of roofs and
the drearier light shafts spoken of flatteringly as yards. He compressed