glass to his lips, with a quick, almost eager motion, and drained
it at a single draught.

"Just right," said he, tossing a sixpence to the young bar-tender.
"You are first rate at a brandy-toddy. Never drank a better in my
life."

The lad's smiling face told that he was gratified by the
compliment. To me the sight was painful, for I saw that this
youthful tippler was on dangerous ground.

"Who is that young man in the bar?" I asked, a few minutes
afterward, on being rejoined by the landlord.

Simon Slade stepped to the door and looked into the bar for a
moment.

Two or three men were there by this time; but he was at no loss in
answering my question.

"Oh, that's a son of Judge Hammond, who lives in the large brick
house as you enter the village. Willy Hammond, as everybody
familiarly calls him, is about the finest young man in our
neighborhood. There is nothing proud or put-on about him--nothing
--even if his father is a judge, and rich into the bargain. Every
one, gentle or simple, likes Willy Hammond. And then he is such
good company. Always so cheerful, and always with a pleasant story
on his tongue. And he's so high-spirited withal, and so honorable.
Willy Hammond would lose his right hand rather than be guilty of a
mean action."