to the city. From Anderson's office the bank of red clay soil sloped
to the water's edge. He could see the gleam of the current through
the shag of young trees which found root in the unpromising soil. Now
and then the tall mast of a sailing-vessel glided by, now the
smoke-stack of a steamer. Often the quiet was broken by the panting
breath of a tug. Often into his field of vision flapped the wet
clothes from the line strung along the deck of a canal-boat. The
canal ran along beside the regular current of the river, separated
from it by a narrow tow-path. Farther down, the great railroad bridge
crossed the stream, and at all hours he could catch the swift glisten
of the train-windows as they shot past.

Anderson's office was about twelve by fourteen, and lined with
shelves on two sides. On these he had books, not law-books. Those he
had relegated to the library at home. He had probably in the depths
of his consciousness a sensation of melancholy at the contemplation
of those reminders of his balked career. No man, no matter how
gracefully he may yield to it, cares to contemplate failures. He had
filled these shelves with books of which he was fond, for daily
reading. They were most of them old. He had little money with which
to purchase new ones. He had been forced to rely upon those which his
father and grandfather had accumulated. There were, however, a few
recent and quite valuable books which he had acquired since his
venture in trade, upon entomology, especially books upon butterflies.
Since his retreat from the law he had developed suddenly, perhaps by
the force of contrast, or the opposite swing of the pendulum, an
overwhelming taste for those airy flowers of animated life. The two
walls of the office not occupied with books were hung with framed
specimens. He had also under the riverward window a little table
equipped with the necessary paraphernalia for mounting them. Many a