ture of his popularity.

As Nicholas looked in, he raised himself lightly from Tom's desk chair
and gave him a hearty handshake.

"Hello, Burr! We were just talking of you. I was telling Tom a jolly
thing I heard yesterday. Two farmers were discussing you at the
post-office, and one of them said: ''Tain't that he's got so much
sense--I had a sight more at his age--but he's so blamed sure of
himself, he makes you believe in him.' How's that for fame?"

"Not so bad as it is for me," returned Nicholas with a laugh. "If you
win one or two small cases, there's obliged to be undue influence of the
devil."

"Which, occasionally, it is," added Tom seriously.

Dudley threw himself back into his chair and crossed his shapely legs.
For a moment he smoked in silence, then he removed his cigar from his
mouth and flecked the ashes upon the uncarpeted floor.

"Oh! the mystery to me is," he said, "that you exist down here and live
to tell the tale--or at least that you earn enough crumbs to feed the
crows."

"Kingsborough crows aren't high livers," remarked Nicholas as he threw
himself into the remaining chair.

Dudley laughed softly--a humorous laugh that fell pleasantly on the ear.

"That reminds me," he began whimsically. "I met a tourist with
spectacles walking along Duke of Gloucester Street. 'Sir,' he said
courteously, 'I am looking for Kingsborough. I am told that it is a
city.' 'Sir,' I responded, with a bow that did honour to my
grandfather's ghost, 'it was once a chartered city; it is now only a
charter.'"

Then he turned to Tom.

"We haven't got used to the railroad yet, have we?" he asked.

Tom shook his head.

"General Battle's still protesting," he replied. "He swears it makes
Kingsborough common."

Dudley thoughtfully examined his cigar, an amused smile about his mouth.

"My mother doesn't want the cows turned out of the churchyard," he
observed, "because it would abolish one of Kingsborough's
characteristics. She's right, too, by Jove."

"They're having a fight over it now," put in Nicholas with the gravity
he rarely lost. "The people who own cows call it an 'ancient right.' The
people who don't, call it sacrilege. The rector leads one faction, and
the congregation has split."

"And split we smash," added Dudley. "Well, these are exciting times in
Kingsborough's history; it is almost as lively as Richmond. There we had
a religious convention and an elopement last week. I don't suppose you
come up