At first Stephen was too surprised for speech. Then, in spite of his
feelings, he stared at the German with a new appreciation of his
character. Then he could merely shake his head.

"Is it not for the Union?" implored Richter, "I would give a fortune, if
I had it. Ah, my friend, that would please me so. And I do not need the
money now. I 'have--nobody."

Spring was in the air; the first faint smell of verdure wafted across the
river on the wind. Stephen turned to the open window, tears of intense
agony in his eyes. In that instant he saw the regiment marching, and the
flag flying at its head.

"It is my duty to stay here, Carl," he said brokenly.

Richter took an appealing step toward him and stopped. He realized that
with this young New Englander a decision once made was unalterable. In
all his knowledge of Stephen he never remembered him to change. With the
demonstrative sympathy of his race, he yearned to comfort him, and knew
not how. Two hundred years of Puritanism had reared barriers not to be
broken down.

At the end of the office the stern figure of the Judge appeared.

"Mr. Brice!" he said sharply.

Stephen followed him into the littered room behind the ground glass door,
scarce knowing what to expect,--and scarce caring, as on that first day
he had gone in there. Mr. Whipple himself closed the door, and then the