Austen Vane, like most men who are really capable of a deep sympathy, was
not an adept at expressing it verbally. Moreover, he knew enough of his
fellow-men to realize that a Puritan farmer would be suspicious of
sympathy. The man had been near to death himself, was compelled to spend
part of the summer, his bread-earning season, in a hospital, and yet no
appeal or word of complaint had crossed his lips.

"Mr. Meader," said Austen, "I came over here to tell you that in my
opinion you are entitled to heavy damages from the railroad, and to
advise you not to accept a compromise. They will send some one to you and
offer you a sum far below that which you ought in justice to receive, You
ought to fight this case."

"How am I going to pay a lawyer, with a mortgage on my farm?" demanded
Mr. Meader.

"I'm a lawyer," said Austen, "and if you'll take me, I'll defend you
without charge."

"Ain't you the son of Hilary Vane?"

"Yes."

"I've heard of him a good many times," said Mr. Meader, as if to ask what
man had not. "You're railroad, ain't ye?"

Mr. Meader gazed long and thoughtfully into the young man's face, and the
suspicion gradually faded from the farmer's blue eyes.