over a familiar view. Directly across the creek, on
the low ground beyond, might be seen the dilapidated
stone foundation of the house where once
had lived Flora Macdonald, the Jacobite refugee,
the most romantic character of North Carolina
history. Old Judge Straight had had a tree cut
away from the creek-side opposite his window, so
that this historic ruin might be visible from his
office; for the judge could trace the ties of blood
that connected him collaterally with this famous
personage. His pamphlet on Flora Macdonald,
printed for private circulation, was highly prized
by those of his friends who were fortunate enough
to obtain a copy. To the left of the window a
placid mill-pond spread its wide expanse, and to
the right the creek disappeared under a canopy of
overhanging trees.

A footstep sounded in the doorway, and Warwick,
turning, faced the old judge. Time had left
greater marks upon the lawyer than upon his office.
His hair was whiter, his stoop more pronounced;
when he spoke to Warwick, his voice had some of
the shrillness of old age; and in his hand, upon
which the veins stood out prominently, a decided
tremor was perceptible.

"Good-morning, Judge Straight," said the
young man, removing his hat with the graceful
Southern deference of the young for the old.