wall, to be but a boldly limned composite likeness of his race, awaiting
the last touches and the gilded frame.

"What can I do for you?" he asked again, his tone preserving its
unfailing courtesy. He had not made an uncivil remark since the close of
the war--a line of conduct resulting less from what he felt to be due to
others than from what he believed to be becoming in himself.

The boy shifted on his bare feet. In the old-timed setting of the
furniture he was an alien--an anachronism--the intrusion of the
hopelessly modern into the helplessly past. His hair made a rich spot in
the colourless atmosphere, and it seemed to focus the incoming light
from the unshuttered window, leaving the background in denser shadow.

The animation of his features jarred the serenity of the room. His
profile showed gnome-like against the nodding heads of the microphylla
roses.

"There ain't nothin' in peanut-raisin'," he said suddenly; "I--I'd
ruther be a judge."

"My dear boy!" exclaimed the judge, and finished helplessly, "my dear
boy--I--well--I--"

They were both silent. The regular droning of the old clock sounded
distinctly in the stillness. The perfume of roses, mingling with the
musty scent from the furniture, borrowed the quality of musk.

The child was breathing heavily. Suddenly he dug the dirty knuckles of
one fist into his eyes.