hrough the process to the satisfaction of
Mr. Graves and to the amazement of Nicholas.

The office was a plain, square room, containing, besides the desks and
tables, an old secretary and a corner cupboard of an antique pattern,
which held an odd assortment of cracked china and chemist bottles. There
was also a square mahogany chest, called the wine-cellar, which had been
sent from the dining-room when the last bottle of Tokay was opened to
drink the health of the Confederacy.

Before the war the place had been used by the judge as a general
business room, but when the slaves were freed and there were fewer
servants it was found to be little needed, and was finally given over
entirely to the children's school.

When recess came the tutor left the office, telling Nicholas that he
might go home with the little girls if he liked. "I shall try to have
the books you need by to-morrow," he said, and, his natural amiability
overcoming his assumed superciliousness, he added pleasantly:

"I shouldn't mind being backward at first. The boys are older than you,
but you'll soon catch up."

He went out, and Nicholas had started towards the door, when Tom Bassett
flung himself before him, swinging skilfully over an intervening table.

"Hold up, carrot-head," he said. "Let's have a look at you. Are all
heads afire where you come from?"

"He's Amos Burr's boy," explained Bernard Battle with a grin. "He lives
'long our road. I saw him hoeing potatoes day before yesterday. He's got
freckles enough to tan a sheepskin!"

In the midst of the laugh which followed Nicholas stood awkwardly,
shifting his bare feet. His face was scarlet, and he fingered in
desperation the ragged brim of his hat.

"I reckon they're my freckles," he said doggedly.

"And I reckon you can keep 'em," retorted Bernard, mimicking his tone.
"We ain't going to steal 'em. I say, Eugie, here're some freckles for
sale!"

The dark little girl, who was putting up her books in one corner,
looked up and shook her head.

"Let me alone!" she replied shortly, and returned to her work, tugging
at the straps with both hands. Dudley Webb--a handsome, upright boy,
well dressed in a dark suit and linen shirt--lounged over as he munched
a sandwich.

He looked at Nicholas from head to foot, and his gaze was returned with
stolid defiance. Nicholas did not flinch, but for the first time he felt
ashamed of his ugliness, of his coarse clothes, of his briar-scratched
legs, of