in perspective before the window, and along it, out beyond the confines
of the town, there reached the flat monotony of the dark prairie soil.
The leaves of the soft maples were beginning to show over there, near
the village church. A dog crossed the street, pausing midway of the
crossing to scratch his ear. The cart of the leading grocer was
hitched in front of his store, and an idle citizen or two paused near
by to exchange a morning greeting. All the little, uneventful day was
beginning, as it had begun so many times before here in this little,
uneventful town, where the world was finished, never more to change.
Franklin shuddered. Was this, then, to be his life? He turned to the
rows of scuffed-backed law books on their shelves. Then he turned
again to his letter, and to the window, and to the birds and the grass.
He caught himself noting how long the dog's hind leg looked, how
impossible the angle between the fore leg and the spine, as it half sat
in flea-compelled contortions.

There came a regular tread upon the stair, as there had always for
years come at this hour of half past seven in the morning, rain or
shine. Judge Bradley entered, tall, portly, smooth shaven, his silk
hat pushed back upon his brow, as was his fashion. Franklin turned to
make the usual morning salutation.

"Good-morning, Ned," said the Judge, affably.

"Good-morning, Judge," said Franklin. "I hope you are well."

"Yes, thank you. Nothing ever the matter with me. How are things
coming?"

"Oh, all right, thank you."